on the breeze and began to run up and down on the beach, jabbing
their bills into the damp sand and flapping their little wings. It was
like Eden--Eden-by-the-Sea--I wouldn't have been surprised if Eve had
come out of the woods yawning and stretching herself. And I wouldn't
have cared--if I'd been shaved.

I took notice of all this peacefulness and quiet, twenty grains of
quinine, some near food out of a can, and then had a good look around
for a good place to stop, in case I got started running.

I fixed on a sandy knoll that had a hollow in the top of it, and one
twisted beach ebony to shade the hollow. At the five points of a star
with the knoll for centre, but at safe blasting distance, I planted
dynamite, primed and short-fused. If anything chased me I hoped to have
time to spring one of these mines in passing, tumble into my hollow and
curl up, with my fingers in my ears.

I didn't believe in heathen gods when the sea and sky were that
exclusive blue; but I had learned before I was fifteen years old that
day is invariably followed by night, and that between the two there is a
time toward the latter end of which you can believe anything. It was
with that dusky period in view that I mined the approaches to my little
villa at Eden-by-the-Sea.

Well, after that I took the flask that had the slip of skin in it,
unscrewed the top, pulled the rubber cork, and fished the skin out, with
a salvage hook that I made by unbending and rebending a hair-pin....
Don't smile. I've always had a horror of _accidentally_ finding a
hair-pin in my pocket, and so I carry one on purpose.... See? Not an
airy, fairy Lillian, but an honest, hard-working Jane ... good to clean
a pipe with. So I fished out the slip of skin (with the one I had then)
and spread it out on my knee, and translated what was written on it, for
the thousandth time.

Can you read that? The old-fashioned S's mix you up. It's straight
modern Italian. I don't know what the ink's made of, but the skin's the
real article--it's taken from just above the knee where a man can get at
himself best. It runs this way, just like a "personal" in the _Herald_,
only more so:

Prisoner on Prana Beach will share treasure with rescuing party.
Come at once.

Isn't that just like an oil-well-in-the-South-west-Company's prospectus?
"Only a little stock left; price of shares will be raised shortly to
thirteen cents."

I bit. It was knowing what kind of skin the ad. wa