Part 27 (1/2)

A few moments later I had completed my task as general bottle-washer, and I cast about for something to occupy me.

First I approached and politely caressed the satiated dog. He woke up, regarded me with dully meditative eyes, yawned, and went to sleep again. Never a flop of tail to indicate grat.i.tude for blandishments, never the faintest symptom of canine appreciation.

Chilled by my reception, I moused about for a while, poking into boxes and bundles; then raised my head and inspected the landscape. Through the vista of trees the pink s.h.i.+rt-waist of the pretty stenographer glimmered like a rose blooming in the wilderness.

From whatever point I viewed the prospect that pink spot seemed to intrude; I turned my back and examined the jungle, but there it was repeated in a hundred pink blossoms among the ma.s.sed thickets; I looked up into the tree-tops, where pink mosses spotted the palms; I looked out over the lake, and I saw it in my mind's eye pinker than ever. It was certainly a case of pink-eye.

”I'll go for a stroll, too; it's a free country,” I muttered.

After I had strolled in a complete circle I found myself within three feet of a pink s.h.i.+rt-waist.

”I beg your pardon,” I said; ”I had no inten--”

”I thought you were never coming,” she said, amiably.

”How is your finger?” I asked.

She held it up. I took it gingerly; it was smooth and faintly rosy at the tip.

”Does it hurt?” I inquired.

”Dreadfully. Your hands feel so cool--”

After a silence she said, ”Thank you, that has cooled the burning.”

”I am determined,” said I, ”to expel the fire from your finger if it takes hours and hours.” And I seated myself with that intention.

For a while she talked, making innocent observations concerning the tropical foliage surrounding us. Then silence crept in between us, accentuated by the brooding stillness of the forest.

”I am afraid your hands are growing tired,” she said, considerately.

I denied it.

Through the vista of palms we could see the lake, blue as a violet, sparkling with silvery suns.h.i.+ne. In the intense quiet the splash of leaping mullet sounded distinctly.

Once a tall crane stalked into view among the sedges; once an unseen alligator shook the silence with his deep, hollow roaring. Then the stillness of the wilderness grew more intense.

We had been sitting there for a long while without exchanging a word, dreamily watching the ripple of the azure water, when all at once there came a scurrying patter of feet through the forest, and, looking up, I beheld the hound-dog, tail between his legs, bearing down on us at lightning speed. I rose instantly.

”What is the matter with the dog?” cried the pretty stenographer. ”Is he going mad, Mr. Gilland?”

”Something has scared him,” I exclaimed, as the dog, eyes like lighted candles, rushed frantically between my legs and buried his head in Miss Barrison's lap.

”Poor doggy!” she said, smoothing the collapsed pup; ”poor, p-oor little beast! Did anything scare him? Tell aunty all about it.”

When a dog flees _without yelping_ he's a badly frightened creature. I instinctively started back towards the camp whence the beast had fled, and before I had taken a dozen steps Miss Barrison was beside me, carrying the dog in her arms.

”I've an idea,” she said, under her breath.

”What?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the camp.