Isle o' Dreams. Frederick Ferdinand Moore

      "This is a shame!" said Locke, in a cautious whisper to Trask, as he leaned back in his grass chair to light a cigar. "I hate to see a white man like that in this country."

      "He looks hungry," said Marjorie. "Dad, call the boy!"

      "It's an interesting case," said Trask. "I want you to hear him. Wilkins had him up so I could talk to him. He's got an island."

      "Would the lady buy a picter?" inquired Dinshaw, with a little bow. "Hand painted by myself, out of my head, from my own recollections. A good suvverner." He began to unwrap his flat parcel.

      "Come over here and sit down," said Locke, rising, and pushing forward a chair. "You ought to have something to drink and a bite to eat. Shouldn't be out in sun like this with that sort of headgear."

      Dinshaw muttered a thanks, and dropped into the chair, his thin, wrinkled face drawing into a queer smile. He let the package fall across his knees, and his hat dropped from his trembling fingers. He stroked a tuft of whisker under his chin.

      "I don't mind the heat, but the soup's bad," he remarked.

      "Here's the boy," said Trask. "Now what's it to be?"

      "Eh! Oh, Ah Wing! That boy knows me. A tot of gin with a stinger, and thank you kindly. A master should go with his ship," and he touched his sparse white hair which showed his scalp, and nodded his head, staring out over the bay as if in a reverie. The colour was bleached out of his failing eyes and they had a habit of roving about unsteadily, a quality common in old sailors and probably acquired in a lifetime of watching heaving seas.

      "Bring some more of the fish, and a big cup of coffee," said Trask, as Ah Wing grinned and turned to go.

      "So you sell pictures," encouraged Marjorie. "And paint them yourself!"

      "Aye, ma'am. All hands lost but myself—piled up on a reef of this island. A master should go with his ship." He clutched at his parcel and began tearing off the string.

      "Picters o' my island. I allus was a painter," he continued, "if I did foller the sea. Why, in my bark, the Wetherall it was, I had fancy picters on the bulkheads an' gold linin' over the white but she got in a twistin' jimmycane, such as we have in these waters. Thar's my island!"

      He held up one canvas, a foot high and two feet wide, tacked over a piece of board. It was a gaudy representation of an island wrought with pathetic lack of skill. There was a conical peak at the left end smeared with a slash of purple, and over it a very red and very round sun. The land sloped away from the peak to the other end of the island, and was lost in a white streak extending seaward, the the bony finger of a skeleton, marking a reef clothed with fuzzy breakers. A rocky ledge ran down to where the reef began and a big gray stone stood up abruptly, giving the island the appearance of a bluff-bowed vessel, and under it, a triangular patch of beach. Near the rock were four palm trees. One bent over at a sharp angle, as if it had been partly uprooted, and its moppy fronds almost trailed in the still water of a pool formed by a second reef, not so clearly defined, which ran parallel with the land. Except inside this natural basin the whole shore of the island was wreathed by white rollers and behind the shore line was a fringe of vividly green jungle.

      "Oh, isn't that splendid!" exclaimed Marjorie.

      "It's a work o' art, that's what everybody says," remarked the old man with a show of pride.

      "What do you call the island?" asked Locke.

      "The name don't matter, sir. 'Dinshaw's Island' they call it hereabouts, in honour o' the fact I was wrecked on it. Blown off my course in a typhoon at night and went smash into this reef ye see here. I was washed out o' the riggin', an' when I come to I was on the beach here, wreckage all round, an' the sun shinin' bright as a whiffet, an' me all beat out an' water-logged. Right there it was," and he put his thumb on a spot near the rock.

      "Is it a big island?" asked Trask.

      "Not in the way ye might think. Big enough as it goes, but it ain't the size what counts," and he broke into a cackling laugh, wagging his head, as if he held the secret of a great joke.

      "Where is it?" asked Locke.

      "Thar's lots as would like to know, sir," said Dinshaw, gravely. "But I ain't in the way o' tellin', not until I can see my way clear to go myself."

      "It is near the mainland of Luzon?" asked Trask.

      Dinshaw turned quickly and peered at him suspiciously, pursing his lips.

      "It is," he said, finally.

      "I don't see any other land in the picture," ventured Trask, scanning the canvas with more care.

      "Ye bet ye don't!" snapped Dinshaw, with sudden asperity. "I left that out so they can't find it. Lots as would like to find Dinshaw's island, young man, but I'm savin' it for myself. Jarrow said he'd take me, but he never did. He wants to go steal it himself. I know. I know. They can't fool me, if I am old."

      "Steal your island?" asked Marjorie. "Why, how could anybody steal an island?"

      "What's on it?" whispered Dinshaw.

      "Oh, ho," said Locke. "Then there's something on it, is there? Now we're interesting! Treasure, I suppose."

      "Gold on it," piped Dinshaw, with childish simplicity. "Gold enough to make us all rich. Gold enough to ballast a hundred ships!"

      "Ye see that reef? Well, I lay in that bight thar, an' the sun come out. The eye o' the storm it was, and after awhile it come on to blow again, as is the custom with twisters. When the weather cleared again, I don't know how long it was, I crawled down and overhauled the flotsam. There was part of Number One boat, with a beaker o' water an' a ham from the cabin stores. Later, I found my mate, Seth Colburn. He was dead. He'd sailed with me all his life, come from down Eastport way, and a smart man he was, too, at figgers. I dug his grave with my bare hands in this patch o' sand, right there under the ridge, and it was all yaller, shinin' in the sun, as it run through my fingers. All glittery an' soft, like corn meal. That island's full o' it, I'm tellin' ye! It'll make us all rich!" His voice rose, and quavered with excitement.

      Locke looked at Trask questioningly.

      "Here," said Trask, passing Dinshaw the glass which the bar-boy brought. "Drink this."

      "Jarrow said he'd take me," gasped Dinshaw after he had drunk.

      "Who's Jarrow?" asked Trask.

      "Oh, he's got a schooner," said Dinshaw.

      "So your island is full of gold," said Locke, with a skeptical wink for the benefit of Trask and Marjorie. "And you sell pictures of it, eh?"

      "Aye, gold. An' Seth Colburn's buried in it. He'd laugh if he knew. But Jarrow'll take me some day, an' when he does, I'll go back to Yarmouth an' build a big house, all snug an' shipshape, with a piazza like the quarter-deck of a frigate, an' a garden with petunias, an'—an'—have good soup for supper. I fed my crew better'n Prayerful Jones does, an' I tell him so every day. Them that sailed with Cap'n Dinshaw had duff twice a week with raisins in it, sir, an' Wes' Injia m'lasses."

      Marjorie passed Dinshaw a plate of sandwiches and served him with a cup of coffee. Trask drew aside, and Locke followed him.

      "This is right in your line," said Locke.

      "I've a mind to investigate it," said Trask. "Heard some talk about it on my way down from Amoy."

      "Sounds fishy to me," said Locke. "I believe he's off his head."

      "That's what they say here. Wilkins was telling me about him."

      "You think there's gold there?"

      "Possibly. The formation of the ledge looks promising. He may have run into a deposit washed out by the sea, merely a pocket, but significant. You see, if the ledge in the picture is a continuation of a crest from the mainland, I might follow up the lead on Luzon. There is gold out here but the country hasn't been properly prospected, owing to the troubles with the natives. I'd like to look things over