,--a scamp.

The wind whistled and roared about the great verandas and into the
glassless windows with all the vehemence of a New England snowstorm. It
caught our well-protected punkah-lamps, and turned their broad flames
into spiral columns of smoke. Ever and again a flash of lightning
flared in our eyes, and revealed the water of the narrow straits
lashed into a white fury.

I should have been thankful for the company of even a dog on such a
night, and think the loafer felt it, for I could see that he was more
at ease with every crash of thunder. I tiptoed over to the "little
gal," and noted her soft, regular breathing and healthful sleep,
undisturbed by the fierce storm outside.

I lit a manila, and handed one to my companion. We puffed a moment
in silence, while the boy replenished our glasses.

"Now," I said, tipping my chair back against the wall, "tell me
your story."

My guest's face at once assumed the expression of the professional
loafer. My faith in him began to wane.

"I am an American," he began glibly enough under the combined effects
of the whiskey and dinner, "an old soldier. I fought with Grant in
the Wilderness, and--"

"Of course," I interrupted, "and with Sherman in Georgia. I have heard
it all by a hundred better talkers than you. Suppose you skip it."

I did not look up, but I was perfectly familiar with the expression
of injured innocence that was mantling his face.

He began again in a few minutes, but his voice had lost some of its
engaging frankness.

"I am the son of a kind and indulgent mother,--God bless her. My
father died before I knew him--"

I moved uneasily in my chair.

He hurried on:--

"I fell in bad ways in spite of her saintly love, and ran away to sea."

"Look here, my friend," I said, "I am sorry to spoil your little tale,
but it is an old one. Can't you give me something new? Now try again."

He looked at me unsteadily under his thin eyebrows, shuffled restlessly
in his seat, and said with something like a sob in his voice:--

"Well, sir, I will. You have been kind to me and taken my little gal
in; you saved her life, and, for a change, I'll tell you the truth."

He drew himself up a little too ostentatiously, threw his head back,
and said proudly:--

"I am a gentleman born."

"Good," I laughed. "Now you are on the right track, and besides you
look it."

"Ah! you may sneer," he retorted, "but I tell you the truth."

His face flushed and his lip quive