sted in
mysteries, especially when they had to do with woman--and such an
absurdly inconsequential thing as a handkerchief.

A second time he went to bed. He fell asleep thinking about Keok and
Nawadlook and the people of his range. From somewhere he had been given
the priceless heritage of dreaming pleasantly, and Keok was very real,
with her swift smile and mischievous face, and Nawadlook's big, soft
eyes were brighter than when he had gone away. He saw Tautuk, gloomy as
usual over the heartlessness of Keok. He was beating a tom-tom that gave
out the peculiar sound of bells, and to this Amuk Toolik was dancing the
Bear Dance, while Keok clapped her hands in exaggerated admiration. Even
in his dreams Alan chuckled. He knew what was happening, and that out of
the corners of her laughing eyes Keok was enjoying Tautuk's jealousy.
Tautuk was so stupid he would never understand. That was the funny part
of it. And he beat his drum savagely, scowling so that he almost shut
his eyes, while Keok laughed outright.

It was then that Alan opened his eyes and heard the last of the ship's
bells. It was still dark. He turned on the light and looked at his
watch. Tautuk's drum had tolled eight bells, aboard the ship, and it was
four o'clock in the morning.

Through the open port came the smell of sea and land, and with it a
chill air which Alan drank in deeply as he stretched himself for a few
minutes after awakening. The tang of it was like wine in his blood, and
he got up quietly and dressed while he smoked the stub-end of a cigar he
had laid aside at midnight. Not until he had finished dressing did he
notice the handkerchief on the table. If its presence had suggested a
significance a few hours before, he no longer disturbed himself by
thinking about it. A bit of carelessness on the girl's part, that was
all. He would return it. Mechanically he put the crumpled bit of cambric
in his coat pocket before going on deck.

He had guessed that he would be alone. The promenade was deserted.
Through the ghost-white mist of morning he saw the rows of empty chairs,
and lights burning dully in the wheel-house. Asian monsoon and the
drifting warmth of the Japan current had brought an early spring to the
Alexander Archipelago, and May had stolen much of the flowering softness
of June. But the dawns of these days were chilly and gray. Mists and
fogs settled in the valleys, and like thin smoke rolled down the sides
of the mountains to the sea,