ertain reserves went down on
both sides. Spurlock discussed the affairs of the island and Ruth
gave him in exchange her adventures with the native girl who was to
be their servant.

This getting up at dawn--real dawn--and working until seven was a
distinct novelty. From then until four in the afternoon there was
nothing to do--the whole island went to sleep. Even the chattering
monkeys, parrots, and parrakeets departed the fruit groves for the
smelly dark of the jungle. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed,
the boys made no effort to unload. They hunted up shady nooks and
went to sleep; but promptly at four they would be at the office,
ready for barter.

Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began
to practise on it in the night. He would never be able to compose
upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Above the
work-table was a drop-light--kerosene. The odour of kerosene
permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some
extent by burning native punk in brass jars.

He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. He
started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket.
Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the
doorway. She crooked her finger.

"What is it?"

"The night," she answered. "Come and see the lagoon in the
moonlight."

He drew down the lamp and blew it out, and followed her into the
night, more lovely than he had ever imagined night to be. There was
only one sound--the fall of the sea upon the main beach, and even
that said: "Hush! Hush! Hus-s-sh!" Not a leaf stirred, not a shadow
moved. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some
fabulous Grecian temple.

"Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering
the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite
wonderful . . . . There!"

Out of the dark unruffled sapphire of the lagoon came vertical
flashes of burning silver, singly and in groups.

"What in the world is it?" he asked.

"Flying fish. Something is feeding upon them. I thought you might
like to see. You might be able to use the picture some day."

"I don't know." He bent his head to his knees. "Something's wrong.
I can't invent; the thing won't come."

"Shall I tell you a real story?"

"Something you have seen?"

"Yes."

"Tell it. Perhaps what I need is something to bite in."

So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the