"How have you contrived to still these troubled waters?" "I've chanced upon an old ally in the Master of the Mint," answered Rowland. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. "I'll tackle it to-night!" "But it's after ten!" "What's that got to do with it? … The roofs of the native huts scattering in the wind! … the absolute agony of the twisting palms!…. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. This was just what he needed.
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