a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about
this. He called it "The Man Who Could Not Go Home." Himself. He did
not write this with lead but with his heart's blood.

By the middle of July he was in full health. In the old days he had
been something of an athlete--a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at
tennis. The morning swims in the lagoon had thickened the red
corpuscle. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself
vigorously to his tasks.

Late in July he finished the fourth story. This time there wasn't
any doubt. He had done it. These were _yarns_! As he was about to
slip the manuscripts into the envelope, something caught his eye:
by Howard Spurlock. Entranced, he stared at the name. Suddenly he
understood what had happened. A wrathful God was watching him.
Howard Spurlock. The honey on his tongue turned to ashes. To write
under a pseudonym!--to be forced to disown his children! He could
not write under his own name, enjoy the fruits of fame should these
tales prove successful.

Here was a thundering blow. All his dreams shattered in an instant.
What is the supreme idea in the heart and mind of youth? To win
fame and fortune: and particularly to enjoy them. Spurlock slumped
in his chair, weak and empty. This was the bitterest hour he had
ever known. From thoughts of fame to thoughts of mere bread and
butter! It seemed to Spurlock that he had tumbled off the edge of
Somewhere into the abyss of Nowhere.

At length, when he saw no escape from the inevitable, he took the
four title pages from the manuscripts and typed new ones,
substituting Taber for Spurlock. A vast indifference settled down
upon him. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not.
He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe
he would ever write again.

Both Ruth and McClintock came down to the launch to wish him
God-speed and good luck. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock,
with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. Through it
all Spurlock maintained a gaiety which deceived them completely. But
his treasured dream lay shattered at his feet.

And yet--such is the buoyancy of youth--within a fortnight he began
his first novel, pretending to himself that it was on Ruth's
account. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable
thought.

* * * * *

Coconuts grew perpetually. There will often be six growths in a
single palm. So proas load