o. Smoke of life, that's all. And don't forget one
thing, Ford. There was a dab of unruly blood in old Isaac Ford, and Joe
Garland inherited it--all of it, smoke of life and cosmic sap; while you
inherited all of old Isaac's ascetic blood. And just because your blood
is cold, well-ordered, and well-disciplined, is no reason that you should
frown upon Joe Garland. When Joe Garland undoes the work you do,
remember that it is only old Isaac Ford on both sides, undoing with one
hand what he does with the other. You are Isaac Ford's right hand, let
us say; Joe Garland is his left hand."

Percival Ford made no answer, and in the silence Dr. Kennedy finished his
forgotten Scotch and soda. From across the grounds an automobile hooted
imperatively.

"There's the machine," Dr. Kennedy said, rising. "I've got to run. I'm
sorry I've shaken you up, and at the same time I'm glad. And know one
thing, Isaac Ford's dab of unruly blood was remarkably small, and Joe
Garland got it all. And one other thing. If your father's left hand
offend you, don't smite it off. Besides, Joe is all right. Frankly, if
I could choose between you and him to live with me on a desert isle, I'd
choose Joe."

Little bare-legged children ran about him, playing, on the grass; but
Percival Ford did not see them. He was gazing steadily at the singer
under the _hau_ tree. He even changed his position once, to get closer.
The clerk of the Seaside went by, limping with age and dragging his
reluctant feet. He had lived forty years on the Islands. Percival Ford
beckoned to him, and the clerk came respectfully, and wondering that he
should be noticed by Percival Ford.

"John," Ford said, "I want you to give me some information. Won't you
sit down?"

The clerk sat down awkwardly, stunned by the unexpected honour. He
blinked at the other and mumbled, "Yes, sir, thank you."

"John, who is Joe Garland?"

The clerk stared at him, blinked, cleared his throat, and said nothing.

"Go on," Percival Ford commanded.

"Who is he?"

"You're joking me, sir," the other managed to articulate.

"I spoke to you seriously."

The clerk recoiled from him.

"You don't mean to say you don't know?" he questioned, his question in
itself the answer.

"I want to know."

"Why, he's--" John broke off and looked about him helplessly. "Hadn't
you better ask somebody else? Everybody thought you knew. We always
thought . . . "

"Yes, go ahead."

"We always