Hồi trước ta post đầu têu cái của nợ này 1 lần và bị ăn point từ bạn moon, kì này không biết có ai cho ăn roi ko =]] o conquer the pain, or take loving care of them. It's a source of pride. Most of my mods aren't attached to anything important, really - Other than aesthetic appeal. But some of them are. So when a good friend of mine was murdered (by her boyfriend, we suspect. But ... That's another story) and I was understandably cut up about it, I decided that's exactly what I'd do. Another notch on my skin, style.
THE BASIC LAWS OF HUMAN STUPIDITY By Carlo M. Cipolla illustrations by James Donnelly Table of contents The first basic law of human stupidity The second basic law The third (and golden) basic law Frequency distribution The power of stupidity The fourth basic law The fifth basic law The first basic law of human stupidity The first basic law of human stupidity asserts without ambiguity that: Always and inevitably everyone underestimates the number of stupid individuals in circulation. At first, the statement sounds trivial, vague and horribly ungenerous. Closer scrutiny will however reveal its realistic veracity. No matter how high are one's estimates of human stupidity, one is repeatedly and recurrently startled by the fact that: a) people whom one had once judged rational and intelligent turn out to be unashamedly stupid. b) day after day, with unceasing monotony, one is harassed in one's activities by stupid individuals who appear suddenly and unexpectedly in the most inconvenient places and at the most improbable moments. The First Basic Law prevents me from attributing a specific numerical value to the fraction of stupid people within the total population: any numerical estimate would turn out to be an underestimate. Thus in the following pages I will denote the fraction of stupid people within a population by the symbol σ. The second basic law Cultural trends now fashionable in the West favour an egalitarian approach to life. People like to think of human beings as the output of a perfectly engineered mass production machine. Geneticists and sociologists especially go out of their way to prove, with an impressive apparatus of scientific data and formulations that all men are naturally equal and if some are more equal than others, this is attributable to nurture and not to nature. I take an exception to this general view. It is my firm conviction, supported by years of observation and experimentation, that men are not equal, that some are stupid and others are not, and that the difference is determined by nature and not by cultural forces or factors. One is stupid in the same way one is red-haired; one belongs to the stupid set as one belongs to a blood group. A stupid man is born a stupid man by an act of Providence. Although convinced that fraction of human beings are stupid and that they are so because of genetic traits, I am not a reactionary trying to reintroduce surreptitiously class or race discrimination. I firmly believe that stupidity is an indiscriminate privilege of all human groups and is uniformly distributed according to a constant proportion. This fact is scientifically expressed by the Second Basic Law which states that The probability that a certain person be stupid is independent of any other characteristic of that person. In this regard, Nature seems indeed to have outdone herself. It is well known that Nature manages, rather mysteriously, to keep constant the relative frequency of certain natural phenomena. For instance, whether men proliferate at the Northern Pole or at the Equator, whether the matching couples are developed or underdeveloped, whether they are black, red, white or yellow the female to male ratio among the newly born is a constant, with a very slight prevalence of males. We do not know how Nature achieves this remarkable result but we know that in order to achieve it Nature must operate with large numbers. The most remarkable fact about the frequency of stupidity is that Nature succeeds in making this frequency equal to the probability quite independently from the size of the group. Thus one finds the same percentage of stupid people whether one is considering very large groups or one is dealing with very small ones. No other set of observable phenomena offers such striking proof of the powers of Nature. The evidence that education has nothing to do with the probability was provided by experiments carried on in a large number of universities all over the world. One may distinguish the composite population which constitutes a university in five major groups, namely the blue-collar workers, the white-collar employees, the students, the administrators and the professors. Whenever I analyzed the blue-collar workers I found that the fraction σ of them were stupid. As σ's value was higher than I expected (First Law), paying my tribute to fashion I thought at first that segregation, poverty, lack of education were to be blamed. But moving up the social ladder I found that the same ratio was prevalent among the white-collar employees and among the students. More impressive still were the results among the professors. Whether I considered a large university or a small college, a famous institution or an obscure one, I found that the same fraction σ of the professors are stupid. So bewildered was I by the results, that I made a special point to extend my research to a specially selected group, to a real elite, the Nobel laureates. The result confirmed Nature's supreme powers: σ fraction of the Nobel laureates are stupid. This idea was hard to accept and digest but too many experimental results proved its fundamental veracity. The Second Basic Law is an iron law, and it does not admit exceptions. The Women's Liberation Movement will support the Second Basic Law as it shows that stupid individuals are proportionately as numerous among men as among women. The underdeveloped of the Third World will probably take solace at the Second Basic Law as they can find in it the proof that after all the developed are not so developed. Whether the Second Basic Law is liked or not, however, its implications are frightening: the Law implies that whether you move in distinguished circles or you take refuge among the head-hunters of Polynesia, whether you lock yourself into a monastery or decide to spend the rest of your life in the company of beautiful and lascivious women, you always have to face the same percentage of stupid people - which percentage (in accordance with the First Law) will always surpass your expectations. The third (and golden) basic law The Third Basic Law assumes, although it does not state it explicitly, that human beings fall into four basic categories: the helpless, the intelligent, the bandit and the stupid. It will be easily recognized by the perspicacious reader that these four categories correspond to the four areas I, H, S, B, of the basic graph (see below). If Tom takes an action and suffers a loss while producing a gain to Dick, Tom's mark will fall in field H: Tom acted helplessly. If Tom takes an action by which he makes a gain while yielding a gain also to Dick, Tom's mark will fall in area I: Tom acted intelligently. If Tom takes an action by which he makes a gain causing Dick a loss, Tom's mark will fall in area B: Tom acted as a bandit. Stupidity is related to area S and to all positions on axis Y below point O. As the Third Basic Law explicitly clarifies: A stupid person is a person who causes losses to another person or to a group of persons while himself deriving no gain and even possibly incurring losses. When confronted for the first time with the Third Basic Law, rational people instinctively react with feelings of skepticism and incredulity. The fact is that reasonable people have difficulty in conceiving and understanding unreasonable behaviour. But let us abandon the lofty plane of theory and let us look pragmatically at our daily life. We all recollect occasions in which a fellow took an action which resulted in his gain and our loss: we had to deal with a bandit. We also recollect cases in which a fellow took an action which resulted in his loss and our gain: we had to deal with a helpless person. We can recollect cases in which a fellow took an action by which both parties gained: he was intelligent. Such cases do indeed occur. But upon thoughtful reflection you must admit that these are not the events which punctuate most frequently our daily life. Our daily life is mostly, made of cases in which we lose money and/or time and/or energy and/or appetite, cheerfulness and good health because of the improbable action of some preposterous creature who has nothing to gain and indeed gains nothing from causing us embarrassment, difficulties or harm. Nobody knows, understands or can possibly explain why that preposterous creature does what he does. In fact there is no explanation - or better there is only one explanation: the person in question is stupid. Frequency distribution Most people do not act consistently. Under certain circumstances a given person acts intelligently and under different circumstances the same person will act helplessly. The only important exception to the rule is represented by the stupid people who normally show a strong proclivity toward perfect consistency in all fields of human endeavours. From all that proceeds, it does not follow, that we can chart on the basic graph only stupid individuals. We can calculate for each person his weighted average position in the plane of figure 1 quite independently from his degree of inconsistency. A helpless person may occasionally behave intelligently and on occasion he may perform a bandit's action. But since the person in question is fundamentally helpless most of his action will have the characteristics of helplessness. Thus the overall weighted average position of all the actions of such a person will place him in the H quadrant of the basic graph. The fact that it is possible to place on the graph individuals instead of their actions allows some digression about the frequency of the bandit and stupid types. The perfect bandit is one who, with his actions, causes to other individuals losses equal to his gains. The crudest type of banditry is theft. A person who robs you of 100 pounds without causing you an extra loss or harm is a perfect bandit: you lose 100 pounds, he gains 100 pounds. In the basic graph the perfect bandits would appear on a 45-degree diagonal line that divides the area B into two perfectly symmetrical sub-areas (line OM of figure 2). However the "perfect" bandits are relatively few. The line OM divides the area B into two sub-areas, B1, and B2, and by far the largest majority of the bandits falls somewhere in one of these two sub-areas. The bandits who fall in area B1 are those individuals whose actions yield to them profits which are larger than the losses they cause to other people. All bandits who are entitled to a position in area B1 are bandits with overtones of intelligence and as they get closer to the right side of the X axis they share more and more the characteristics of the intelligent person. Unfortunately the individuals entitled to a position in the B1 area are not very numerous. Most bandits actually fall in area B2. The individuals who fall in this area are those whose actions yield to them gains inferior to the losses inflicted to other people. If someone kills you in order to rob you of fifty pounds or if he murders you in order to spend a weekend with your wife at Monte Carlo, we can be sure that he is not a perfect bandit. Even by using his values to measure his gains (but still using your values to measure your losses) he falls in the B2 area very close to the border of sheer stupidity. Generals who cause vast destruction and innumerable casualties in return for a promotion or a medal fall in the same area. The frequency distribution of the stupid people is totally different from that of the bandit. While bandits are mostly scattered over an area stupid people are heavily concentrated along one line, specifically on the Y axis below point O. The reason for this is that by far the majority of stupid people are basically and unwaveringly stupid - in other words they perseveringly insist in causing harm and losses to other people without deriving any gain, whether positive or negative. There are however people who by their improbable actions not only cause damages to other people but in addition hurt themselves. They are a sort of super-stupid who, in our system of accounting, will appear somewhere in the area S to the left of the Y axis. The power of stupidity It is not difficult to understand how social, political and institutional power enhances the damaging potential of a stupid person. But one still has to explain and understand what essentially it is that makes a stupid person dangerous to other people - in other words what constitutes the power of stupidity. Essentially stupid people are dangerous and damaging because reasonable people find it difficult to imagine and understand unreasonable behaviour. An intelligent person may understand the logic of a bandit. The bandit's actions follow a pattern of rationality: nasty rationality, if you like, but still rationality. The bandit wants a plus on his account. Since he is not intelligent enough to devise ways of obtaining the plus as well as providing you with a plus, he will produce his plus by causing a minus to appear on your account. All this is bad, but it is rational and if you are rational you can predict it. You can foresee a bandit's actions, his nasty manoeuvres and ugly aspirations and often can build up your defenses. With a stupid person all this is absolutely impossible as explained by the Third Basic Law. A stupid creature will harass you for no reason, for no advantage, without any plan or scheme and at the most improbable times and places. You have no rational way of telling if and when and how and why the stupid creature attacks. When confronted with a stupid individual you are completely at his mercy. Because the stupid person's actions do not conform to the rules of rationality, it follows that: a) one is generally caught by surprise by the attack; b) even when one becomes aware of the attack, one cannot organize a rational defense, because the attack itself lacks any rational structure. The fact that the activity and movements of a stupid creature are absolutely erratic and irrational not only makes defense problematic but it also makes any counter-attack extremely difficult - like trying to shoot at an object which is capable of the most improbable and unimaginable movements. This is what both Dickens and Schiller had in mind when the former stated that "with stupidity and sound digestion man may front much" and the latter wrote that "against stupidity the very Gods fight in vain." The fourth basic law That helpless people, namely those who in our accounting system fall into the H area, do not normally recognize how dangerous stupid people are, is not at all surprising. Their failure is just another expression of their helplessness. The truly amazing fact, however, is that also intelligent people and bandits often fail to recognize the power to damage inherent in stupidity. It is extremely difficult to explain why this should happen and one can only remark that when confronted with stupid individuals often intelligent men as well as bandits make the mistake of indulging in feelings of self-complacency and contemptuousness instead of immediately secreting adequate quantities of adrenaline and building up defenses. One is tempted to believe that a stupid man will only do harm to himself but this is confusing stupidity with helplessness. On occasion one is tempted to associate oneself with a stupid individual in order to use him for one's own schemes. Such a manoeuvre cannot but have disastrous effects because a) it is based on a complete misunderstanding of the essential nature of stupidity and b) it gives the stupid person added scope for the exercise of his gifts. One may hope to outmanoeuvre the stupid and, up to a point, one may actually do so. But because of the erratic behaviour of the stupid, one cannot foresee all the stupid's actions and reactions and before long one will be pulverized by the unpredictable moves of the stupid partner. This is clearly summarized in the Fourth Basic Law which states that: Non-stupid people always underestimate the damaging power of stupid individuals. In particular non-stupid people constantly forget that at all times and places and under any circumstances to deal and/or associate with stupid people always turns out to be a costly mistake. Through centuries and millennia, in public as in private life, countless individuals have failed to take account of the Fourth Basic Law and the failure has caused mankind incalculable losses. The fifth basic law Instead of considering the welfare of the individual let us consider the welfare of the society, regarded in this context as the algebraic sum of the individual conditions. A full understanding of the Fifth Basic Law is essential to the analysis. It may be parenthetically added here that of the Five Basic Laws, the Fifth is certainly the best known and its corollary is quoted very frequently. The Fifth Basic Law states that: A stupid person is the most dangerous type of person. The corollary of the Law is that: A stupid person is more dangerous than a bandit. The result of the action of a perfect bandit (the person who falls on line OM of figure 2) is purely and simply a transfer of wealth and/or welfare. After the action of a perfect bandit, the bandit has a plus on his account which plus is exactly equivalent to the minus he has caused to another person. The society as a whole is neither better nor worse off. If all members of a society were perfect bandits the society would remain stagnant but there would be no major disaster. The whole business would amount to massive transfers of wealth and welfare in favour of those who would take action. If all members of the society would take action in regular turns, not only the society as a whole but also individuals would find themselves in a perfectly steady state of no change. When stupid people are at work, the story is totally different. Stupid people cause losses to other people with no counterpart of gains on their own account. Thus the society as a whole is impoverished. The system of accounting which finds expression in the basic graphs shows that while all actions of individuals falling to the right of the line POM (see fig. 3) add to the welfare of a society; although in different degrees, the actions of all individuals falling to the left of the same line POM cause a deterioration. In other words the helpless with overtones of intelligence (area H1), the bandits with overtones of intelligence (area B1) and above all the intelligent (area I) all contribute, though in different degrees, to accrue to the welfare of a society. On the other hand the bandits with overtones of stupidity (area B2) and the helpless with overtones of stupidity (area H2) manage to add losses to those caused by stupid people thus enhancing the nefarious destructive power of the latter group. All this suggests some reflection on the performance of societies. According to the Second Basic Law, the fraction of stupid people is a constant σ which is not affected by time, space, race, class or any other sociocultural or historical variable. It would be a profound mistake to believe the number of stupid people in a declining society is greater than in a developing society. Both such societies are plagued by the same percentage of stupid people. The difference between the two societies is that in the society which performs poorly: a) the stupid members of the society are allowed by the other members to become more active and take more actions; b) there is a change in the composition of the non-stupid section with a relative decline of populations of areas I, H1 and B1 and a proportionate increase of populations H2 and B2. This theoretical presumption is abundantly confirmed by an exhaustive analysis of historical cases. In fact the historical analysis allows us to reformulate the theoretical conclusions in a more factual way and with more realistic detail. Whether one considers classical, or medieval, or modern or contemporary times one is impressed by the fact that any country moving uphill has its unavoidable σ fraction of stupid people. However the country moving uphill also has an unusually high fraction of intelligent people who manage to keep the σ fraction at bay and at the same time produce enough gains for themselves and the other members of the community to make progress a certainty. In a country which is moving downhill, the fraction of stupid people is still equal to σ; however in the remaining population one notices among those in power an alarming proliferation of the bandits with overtones of stupidity (sub-area B2 of quadrant B in figure 3) and among those not in power an equally alarming growth in the number of helpless individuals (area H in basic graph, fig.1). Such change in the composition of the non-stupid population inevitably strengthens the destructive power of the σ fraction and makes decline a certainty. And the country goes to Hell. There is genius at work in this thesis. It came round about by way of reader Sam Keen, who sent to the UK a thin gray monograph printed anonimously in mid-1986 in Bologna, Italy. The trail eventually led to Carlo M. Cipolla, the author, who was Professor of Economics at UC Berkeley but, alas died in 2000 and left behind a bunch of (half-american) offsprings... who promptly tried to scrap money out of everything he had written, even if -as in the case of this small text- clearly earmarked and STATED by the Author in its 1986 version as intended for the public domain (and yes, stated again in 1992, despite having re-published this text in 1988, slightly modified, in his "Allegro ma non troppo" copyrighted collection). This copy comes from Whole Earth Review (Spring 1987 pp 2 - 7) and is anyway easy to find all over the web and/or on any webarchive facility à la "wayback machine". There isn't of course, nor cannot be, any valid patent or bogus "copyright" on this work that Professor Cipolla personally WANTED to have in the public domain and incidentally BECAUSE OF ITS VERY OPEN SPREADING is the only one that has made -and still makes- him famous all over the web. We firmly believe that this belongs into any reality cracker's quiver, and that the best onor to the Author and the best chance that anyone will "buy" his other texts (frankly also equally easy to find in many "grey" areas of Internet, but waay less interesting) is to allow this nice little essay to be spread around as originally clearly intended by Professor Cipolla himself.
As promised for sos505: why games are addictive. First off, a few apologies. I know a lot of people here don’t like me for writing the whole thing and a lot of others in English. If that irritates you, don’t bother reading this. There are a few reasons why I write in English, mostly. First and most important: I like to do so. Second: I learn and read about most of these in English. Third: I learned, trained and practiced the majority of serious writings only after getting into university; and all that writings are in English. That means I write in English better than in Vietnamese (not necessarily reading though) and there is less misunderstanding when I write in English. Again if all this irritates you, don’t even bother reading. Feel free to troll, I don’t care now . Ok, on to the subject: game addiction. Is game addiction real? The answer is yes. I know I may have been quite vocal about not banning any gaming as well as non-criminalization of drug, but that doesn’t mean I deny game or drugs addiction. Addictions are real. What I don’t like is that people usually don’t ask the question “Why are they addictive?” or “Does it make sense to ban these?”. Rather they scream murder and ask for banning everything. I just plainly hate that . Yes, game addiction is very real. But why? The answer is quite simple: addictive games were made, intentionally, to be addictive. And people choose to play them. And here is how. First consider a simple and real animal behaviour experiment. It’s called the Skinner's box. Supposedly, a guy named Skinner set up an experiment in which a hamster has to press a lever to get a food pellet. One day, this Skinner guy ran low on food pellets so instead of the hamster having to press a lever once to get one food pellet, he made them press 10 times. And a few interesting things happen. The Skinner box The Skinner box experiment demonstrates a simple mechanism in which intelligent animals (including human) operates: action and reward. The hamster presses the lever (action) and gets a food pellet (reward). Gaming, in general, works the same way: the gamer does something (kill monsters, jump around, etc …) and gets a reward (level up, items, story progression, ending). It’s a thing built by evolution. Actions are quite energy-consuming, so those animals that waste their energy on reward-less activities didn’t live long enough to pass on their genes. Those survive live on a cycle of action-rewards. Also, the rewards serve as a reinforcing influence: you are driven to seek that reward again; all driven by your brain. Basically it keeps us going. Here’s the creepy part comes into play. To make players play games, all you need is to follow the exact same mechanism: action and reward. You may want to read this article, written by a game designer who has a PhD in human behaviour. It’s quite disturbing, yet enlightening somehow. I recommend you read the entire thing. It should clear up a whole lot of things about gaming. It’s creepy in the fact that to make a game that makes gamer play, you don’t even need things like “fun” or “enjoyable” (read it, you won’t find these words). Instead, you have: Quote: Each contingency is an arrangement of time, activity, and reward, and there are an infinite number of ways these elements can be combined to produce the pattern of activity you want from your players By exploiting a primal mental mechanism, game designers can make people play games, even when their games have nothing in it. Here’s several tactics to achieve just that (from the article): - Variable ratio. The ratio refers to how many actions you need to have before getting a reward. There are fixed (ef: kill 10 monsters and you’ll get something) or variable ratio (eg: on average, you kill 10 for something, but it’s unknown whether you’ll get it the next or the 100th). In a Skinner box experiment, if you give the hamster one food pellet every 10 times, the hamster will eventually learn that and relax. He knows the food will come the next time he needs it. But if you give food at total random, he will press it like crazy. Gamers are like that hamster. - But all the ratios will be naught if the rewards ****. And games have rewards just for that purpose: a nice armor, rare weapons, awesome items, new levels, new maps, etc … There rewards aren’t “real”. But because you spent so much efforts in getting it ,clubbing the same damn monster over and over again, your primitive brain says it’s real. It’s so real that online items become valuable, in real life. And game companies start rolling out selling virtual items for real money. - Punish people for not playing. Really? We already made the hamster pressing the lever like crazy. What more could we do? How about zapping it if not pressing the lever every 5 minutes. You see, that’s why people frantically collect their crops in Farmville, they rot if you don’t. Mafia shutdown your property if not played every 24 hours. You frantically return to the game so you don’t lose the things you work so hard to get. The Skinner box which zaps you for not playing. - Make it easy on new players. If you played some MMOs, as I did, you invariably found that you level up very easy early on. And as you go higher, it’s getting harder. The satisfaction you get early on doesn’t wear off as later levels get exponentially harder. Instead, you get really high from it. I know I played like a mad man when I near to level up at higher levels. And when you did: “one more level”. You see, addictive games were made to be addictive. Game designers know just what necessary to make games like that. But they also have an argument and a valid one as well: they put no guns in nobody’s head and make them play the games. People choose to play games. But why? Why spend hours upon hours playing varieties of games whose contents are no more than repeatedly clicking on the mouse and getting nothing of actual values? I mean even visual novels, RPGs, offline games even has some values: a storyline, for example; that’s not far off as a book or a movie. But what about MMOs: no story, no endings, nothing of any particulars? Why do they build a Skinner box, then you chose to become a hamster and start pressing the lever away? It’s YOU in that box. The value of addictive game, link? How about real life? What’s in it for you? Here’s the part that really make people play games. Ask yourself: “are you satisfied with your life? your work? your study? now? or when you were a student?” To get satisfaction at life, people usually need 3 things - Autonomy: you get to chose what to do. And if not what to do, at least how you do it. - Complexity: you get to do something complex, and not some mind numbing repetitions. - Actions and rewards: the rewards must be proportional to the efforts you make, at least in your mind. Job satisfaction It’s about job but life ain’t that different. This is based on our primitive drives, and that doesn’t change for a lot of things Ask yourself: did you have those 3 things when you were a student? The demographic that people most concern when it comes to game addiction. - Autonomy: no, and no. You didn’t get to chose what to study, how to study, at what pace or who to study with. You just go to school, go back home, do homework, and while you’re at it, better do a ******* good job - Complexity: the contents of study is actually quite complex. But the acts of study is not. You repeat this and that, do problems, take test, etc …. It’s all the SSDD. It’s boring as shit, and mind numbing as well. Myself, somewhat, due to the combination of the first two - Rewards: here’s the real kicker. Rewards from study only comes to fruit after several years. 5 years of hard work in elementary to get to a good secondary. And you were barely smart enough to appreciate it. 4 years of secondary to get to high. And 3 years of high to get to uni. I’ve been through all that. And I also know that our primitive brain doesn’t like promised rewards in long run. It’s so far away that our brains couldn’t comprehend. See our ancestors who have to fight bears everyday for food probably didn’t have to think about university. We all want it now, tangible and immediate. And we had about one million years of evolution to reinforce that kind of thinking. University came into existence only about 500 years ago (more or less). Even in the short term, like a reward every semester can’t keep you going. What do you get for being a good student? Not a whole lot. And the law of probability says that you are extremely unlikely to be as good as that bright fucker who is always at the top of the class. So only for a very few, there’s a good short term reward. For the mass, there’s nothing. Also the added bonus of “You don’t work hard enough” from parents. What do you mean I didn’t work hard enough? Face it, you won’t be this guy. You know you won’t, but your parents don’t, most likely Same thing goes for your job and your life at large. - Autonomy: this is freaking hard to get. Unless you are really skilled or get into a good company and a good position - Complexity: ............ - Rewards: you always want more that the pay you get. What's more: the pay is perhaps a little bit further than your brain can comprehend: weekly or monthly. Quite surprisingly, the majority of people got pissed off at work are white collars and office workers. Where there are guns available, the majority of shootings occur in offices and schools. You see, guys whose job involves sitting in front of a computer all day and get a nice salary are more likely to shoot their colleague than a construction worker. Things in life require hard work to get. The rewards are slow and cruel. Unlike in movies like Karate kid where you get to be successful overnight, real achievements require hard work. And our primitive brains just won’t cut for it. Real life relationships are just as cruel and hard. Games give you instant gratification. You get all the satisfaction quickly, and easily. - Autonomy: you get to choose what game to play, how you play it, how to interact with people, etc… You have the freedom to build your character as you want. Even researching on how to do it properly. My autonomy in gaming - Complexity: yeah when boiling them down, games are quite monotonous, but they were specifically designed so that people don’t feel it that way. And grind ahead anyway. - Rewards: awesome armor, weapons, level up, and literally light shining out of your ass every time you level up. In conclusion: 2 things make people addict to game: game were made to be addictive and gamers’ life ****. Then what to do with it? First: what is a game? I haven’t even touched on games like Guitar Hero or Modern Warfare (online). These games are skilled-based, and we all get the satisfaction from mastering a skill. In a sense, Modern Warfare online is the Olympic for unathletic people. It’s essential for mental development and maturation, especially for children. We test ourselves in these situations and without serious consequences if we fail. It doesn’t even matter how useless or esoteric the skill is, we feel good when we are good at something. Even dolphins to that In a sense we play games since it offer something for us to perfect. But pressing a damn button till’ passing out from exhaustion and starvation is hardly a game even less so for enjoyment. After you perfected the skills, extract the last novel experience from it, game developers still wants you to play it. Does it even make sense? So here comes the second point: games weren’t what they used to be. In the old days, before Internet or online gaming, game developers make good games to have good reviews. Good reviews mean more game sold. Also good games mean reputation for game developers and people will buy the next game they make. Things have changed. Now they need people to continue playing the same game over and over again. First: there is money from it. Second: piracy is rising, so to get people to play the game online over and over, means money. Pure MMOs has been around for a while. But even originally offline games are gradually moving towards online gaming. Call of Duty series moved from making good single player to good multiplayer. COD 1,2,4,5 has good single player. From 4 onwards has quite some emphasis on online gaming. COD 6 single player is a blooper. The multiplayer is the money. Even some of the best single player series started to move to multiplayer: FEAR, Bioshock, Assassin’s Creed, etc … Meanwhile making good games is progressively harder as game developer have to put out good graphics, good storyline and good gameplay in the face of increasing standards, lower cost, competition, piracy and drying up of ideas. In the mean time, making people playing online games seems to be the answer. Back to the question: what to do with these addictive games? I give no answers for this, but I gave the information that you might want to consider before judging. Basically gaming now is like heroin, alcohol, tobacco or any drugs: instant high and addictive by itself . But people only choose to do them because their lives **** balls. These guilty pleasures can harm you somewhat, but they do save you from soul crushing boredom, depression or even suicide. Also, not everyone chooses to do it. Even if they choose to do it, not everyone get addicted. Even if they get addicted some still have pretty normal lives. Remember that the junkies you see or read on TV and paper are just the washed up, the outliers. The majority do just fine. Perhaps I will give my personal answer here: I would treat it the same way as alcohol and tobacco (and other drugs that I want to see de-criminalized). I will tell people about the risks involved and why is it so. I will let people free to choose to do it or not. In the case that they actually get addicted and their lives getting fucked over, I will help them; but they better pay for the service (Call me an asshole if you want, but if you’re an alcoholic or heavy smoker, no company will give you insurance. And if you do get hospitalize for a fucked up liver or lungs, you better pay up or you’ll die. In the end, you chose to drink or smoke despite the advices). If they know the bad sides, yet chose to do it, get their life fucked over, yet refuse paying up for help … well let natural selection do the job. People who are too dumb to preserve their own lives don't live very long. Think of it as passive eugenics at work . We got over 80 millions humans in Vietnam, over 6 billions on Earth (some theorists think that 1 or 2 billion human would allow us to live sustainably. The current population will crumble due to its own weight). Perhaps letting a few thousands die out of stupidity every year wouldn’t hurt much.
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Title: The House Without A Key (1925) Author: Earl Derr Biggers * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 0200671.txt Language: English Date first posted: September 2002 Date most recently updated: September 2002 This eBook was produced by: Colin Choat Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au Title: The House Without A Key (1925) Author: Earl Derr Biggers CHAPTER I Kona Weather Miss Minerva Winterslip was a Bostonian in good standing, and long past the romantic age. Yet beauty thrilled her still, even the semi-barbaric beauty of a Pacific island. As she walked slowly along the beach she felt the little catch in her throat that sometimes she had known in Symphony Hall, Boston, when her favorite orchestra rose to some new and unexpected height of loveliness. It was the hour at which she liked Waikiki best, the hour just preceding dinner and the quick tropic darkness. The shadows cast by the tall cocoanut palms lengthened and deepened, the light of the falling sun flamed on Diamond Head and tinted with gold the rollers sweeping in from the coral reef. A few late swimmers, reluctant to depart, dotted those waters whose touch is like the caress of a lover. On the springboard of the nearest float a slim brown girl poised for one delectable instant. What a figure! Miss Minerva, well over fifty herself, felt a mild twinge of envy--youth, youth like an arrow, straight and sure and flying. Like an arrow the slender figure rose, then fell; the perfect dive, silent and clean. Miss Minerva glanced at the face of the man who walked beside her. But Amos Winterslip was oblivious to beauty; he had made that the first rule of his life. Born in the Islands, he had never known the mainland beyond San Francisco. Yet there could be no doubt about it, he was the New England conscience personified--the New England conscience in a white duck suit. "Better turn back, Amos," suggested Miss Minerva. "Your dinner's waiting. Thank you so much." "I'll walk as far as the fence," he said. "When you get tired of Dan and his carryings-on, come to us again. We'll be glad to have you." "That's kind of you," she answered, in her sharp crisp way. "But I really must go home. Grace is worried about me. Of course, she can't understand. And my conduct is scandalous, I admit. I came over to Honolulu for six weeks, and I've been wandering about these islands for ten months." "As long as that?" She nodded. "I can't explain it. Every day I make a solemn vow I'll start packing my trunks--to-morrow." "And to-morrow never comes," said Amos. "You've been taken in by the tropics. Some people are." "Weak people, I presume you mean," snapped Miss Minerva. "Well, I've never been weak. Ask anybody on Beacon Street." He smiled wanly. "It's a strain in the Winterslips," he said. "Supposed to be Puritans, but always sort of yearning toward the lazy latitudes." "I know," answered Miss Minerva, her eyes on that exotic shore line. "It's what sent so many of them adventuring out of Salem harbor. Those who stayed behind felt that the travelers were seeing things no Winterslip should look at. But they envied them just the same--or maybe for that very reason." She nodded. "A sort of gypsy strain. It's what sent your father over here to set up as a whaler, and got you born so far from home. You know you don't belong here, Amos. You should be living in Milton or Roxbury, carrying a little green bag and popping into a Boston office every morning." "I've often thought it," he admitted. "And who knows--I might have made something of my life--" They had come to a barbed-wire fence, an unaccustomed barrier on that friendly shore. It extended well down on to the beach; a wave rushed up and lapped the final post, then receded. Miss Minerva smiled. "Well, this is where Amos leaves off and Dan begins," she said. "I'll watch my chance and run around the end. Lucky you couldn't build it so it moved with the tide." "You'll find your luggage in your room at Dan's, I guess," Amos told her. "Remember what I said about--" He broke off suddenly. A stocky, white-clad man had appeared in the garden beyond the barrier, and was moving rapidly toward them. Amos Winterslip stood rigid for a moment, an angry light flaming in his usually dull eyes. "Good-by," he said, and turned. "Amos!" cried Miss Minerva sharply. He moved on, and she followed. "Amos, what nonsense! How long has it been since you spoke to Dan?" He paused under an algaroba tree. "Thirty-one years," he said. "Thirty-one years the tenth of last August." "That's long enough," she told him. "Now, come around that foolish fence of yours, and hold out your hand to him." "Not me," said Amos. "I guess you don't know Dan, Minerva, and the sort of life he's led. Time and again he's dishonored us all--" "Why, Dan's regarded as a big man," she protested. "He's respected--" "And rich," added Amos bitterly. "And I'm poor. Yes, that's the way it often goes in this world. But there's a world to come, and over there I reckon Dan's going to get his." Hardy soul though she was, Miss Minerva was somewhat frightened by the look of hate on his thin face. She saw the uselessness of further argument. "Good-by, Amos," she said. "I wish I might persuade you to come East some day--" He gave no sign of hearing, but hurried along the white stretch of sand. When Miss Minerva turned, Dan Winterslip was smiling at her from beyond the fence. "Hello, there," he cried. "Come this side of the wire and enjoy life again. You're mighty welcome." "How are you, Dan?" She watched her chance with the waves and joined him. He took both her hands in his. "Glad to see you," he said, and his eyes backed him up. Yes, he did have a way with women. "It's a bit lonely at the old homestead these days. Need a young girl about to brighten things up." Miss Minerva sniffed. "I've tramped Boston in galoshes too many winters," she reminded him, "to lose my head over talk like that." "Forget Boston," he urged. "We're all young in Hawaii. Look at me." She did look at him, wonderingly. He was sixty-three, she knew, but only the mass of wavy white hair overhanging his temples betrayed his age. His face, burned to the deepest bronze by long years of wandering under the Polynesian sun, was without a line or wrinkle. Deep-chested and muscular, he could have passed on the mainland for a man of forty. "I see my precious brother brought you as far as the dead-line," he remarked as they moved on through the garden. "Sent me his love, I presume?" "I tried to get him to come round and shake hands," Miss Minerva said. Dan Winterslip laughed. "Don't deprive poor Amos of his hate for me," he urged. "It's about all he lives for now. Comes over every night and stands under that algaroba tree of his, smoking cigarettes and staring at my house. Know what he's waiting for? He's waiting for the Lord to strike me down for my sins. Well, he's a patient waiter, I'll say that for him." Miss Minerva did not reply. Dan's great rambling house of many rooms was set in beauty almost too poignant to be borne. She stood, drinking it all in again, the poinciana trees like big crimson umbrellas, the stately golden glow, the gigantic banyans casting purple shadows, her favorite hau tree, seemingly old as time itself, covered with a profusion of yellow blossoms. Loveliest of all were the flowering vines, the bougainvillea burying everything it touched in brick-red splendor. Miss Minerva wondered what her friends who every spring went into sedate ecstasies over the Boston Public Gardens would say if they could see what she saw now. They would be a bit shocked, perhaps, for this was too lurid to be quite respectable. A scarlet background--and a fitting one, no doubt, for Cousin Dan. They reached the door at the side of the house that led directly into the living-room. Glancing to her right, Miss Minerva caught through the lush foliage glimpses of the iron fence and tall gates that fronted on Kalia Road. Dan opened the door for her, and she stepped inside. Like most apartments of its sort in the Islands, the living-room was walled on but three sides, the fourth was a vast expanse of wire screening. They crossed the polished floor and entered the big hall beyond. Near the front door a Hawaiian woman of uncertain age rose slowly from her chair. She was a huge, high-breasted, dignified specimen of that vanishing race. "Well, Kamaikui, I'm back," Miss Minerva smiled. "I make you welcome," the woman said. She was only a servant, but she spoke with the gracious manner of a hostess. "Same room you had when you first came over, Minerva," Dan Winterslip announced. "Your luggage is there--and a bit of mail that came in on the boat this morning. I didn't trouble to send it up to Amos's. We dine when you're ready." "I'll not keep you long," she answered, and hurried up the stairs. Dan Winterslip strolled back to his living-room. He sat down in a rattan chair that had been made especially for him in Hong-Kong, and glanced complacently about at the many evidences of his prosperity. His butler entered, bearing a tray with cocktails. "Two, Haku?" smiled Winterslip. "The lady is from Boston." "Yes-s," hissed Haku, and retired soundlessly. In a moment Miss Minerva came again into the room. She carried a letter in her hand, and she was laughing. "Dan, this is too absurd," she said. "What is?" "I may have told you that they are getting worried about me at home. Because I haven't been able to tear myself away from Honolulu, I mean. Well, they're sending a policeman for me." "A policeman?" He lifted his bushy eyebrows. "Yes, it amounts to that. It's not being done openly, of course. Grace writes that John Quincy has six weeks' vacation from the banking house, and has decided to make the trip out here. 'It will give you some one to come home with, my dear,' says Grace. Isn't she subtle?" "John Quincy Winterslip? That would be Grace's son." Miss Minerva nodded. "You never met him, did you, Dan? Well, you will, shortly. And he certainly won't approve of you." "Why not?" Dan Winterslip bristled. "Because he's proper. He's a dear boy, but oh, so proper. This journey is going to be a great cross for him. He'll start disapproving as he passes Albany, and think of the long weary miles of disapproval he'll have to endure after that." "Oh, I don't know. He's a Winterslip, isn't he?" "He is. But the gypsy strain missed him completely. He's a Puritan." "Poor boy." Dan Winterslip moved toward the tray on which stood the amber-colored drinks. "I suppose he'll stop with Roger in San Francisco. Write him there and tell him I want him to make this house his home while he's in Honolulu." "That's kind of you, Dan." "Not at all. I like youth around me--even the Puritan brand. Now that you're going to be apprehended and taken back to civilization, you'd better have one of these cocktails." "Well," said his guest, "I'm about to exhibit what my brother used to call true Harvard indifference." "What do you mean?" asked Winterslip. "I don't mind if I do," twinkled Miss Minerva, lifting a cocktail glass. Dan Winterslip beamed upon her. "You're a good sport, Minerva," he remarked, as he escorted her across the hall. "When in Rome," she answered, "I make it a point not to do as the Bostonians do. I fear it would prove a rather thorny path to popularity." "Precisely." "Besides, I shall be back in Boston soon. Tramping about to art exhibits and Lowell Lectures, and gradually congealing into senility." But she was not in Boston now, she reflected, as she sat down at the gleaming table in the dining-room. Before her, properly iced, was a generous slice of papaia, golden yellow and inviting. Somewhere beyond the foliage outside the screens, the ocean murmured restlessly. The dinner would be perfect, she knew, the Island beef dry and stringy, perhaps, but the fruits and the salad more than atoning. "Do you expect Barbara soon?" she inquired presently. Dan Winterslip's face lighted like the beach at sunrise. "Yes, Barbara has graduated. She'll be along any day now. Nice if she and your perfect nephew should hit on the same boat." "Nice for John Quincy, at any rate," Miss Minerva replied. "We thought Barbara a lively, charming girl when she visited us in the East." "She's all of that," he agreed proudly. His daughter was his dearest possession. "I tell you, I've missed her. I've been mighty lonesome." Miss Minerva gave him a shrewd look. "Yes, I've heard rumors," she remarked, "about how lonesome you've been." He flushed under his tan. "Amos, I suppose?" "Oh, not only Amos. A great deal of talk, Dan. Really, at your age--" "What do you mean, my age? I told you we're all young out here." He ate in silence for a moment. "You're a good sport--I said it and I meant it. You must understand that here in the Islands a man may behave a--a bit differently than he would in the Back Bay." "At that," she smiled, "all men in the Back Bay are not to be trusted. I'm not presuming to rebuke you, Dan. But--for Barbara's sake--why not select as the object of your devotion a woman you could marry?" "I could marry this one--if we're talking about the same woman." "The one I refer to," Miss Minerva replied, "is known, rather widely, as the Widow of Waikiki." "This place is a hotbed of gossip. Arlene Compton is perfectly respectable." "A former chorus girl I believe." "Not precisely. An actress--small parts--before she married Lieutenant Compton." "And a self-made widow." "Just what do you mean by that?" he flared. His gray eyes glittered. "I understand that when her husband's aeroplane crashed on Diamond Head, it was because he preferred it that way. She had driven him to it." "Lies, all lies!" Dan Winterslip cried. "Pardon me, Minerva, but you mustn't believe all you hear on the beach." He was silent for a moment. "What would you say if I told you I proposed to marry this woman?" "I'm afraid I'd become rather bromidic," she answered gently, "and remind you that there's no fool like an old fool." He did not speak. "Forgive me, Dan. I'm your first cousin, but a distant relative for all that. It's really none of my business. I wouldn't care--but I like you. And I'm thinking of Barbara--" He bowed his head. "I know," he said, "Barbara. Well, there's no need to get excited. I haven't said anything to Arlene about marriage. Not yet." Miss Minerva smiled. "You know, as I get on in years," she remarked, "so many wise old saws begin to strike me as utter nonsense. Particularly that one I just quoted." He looked at her, his eyes friendly again. "This is the best avocado I ever tasted," she added. "But tell me, Dan, are you sure the mango is a food? Seems more like a spring tonic to me." By the time they finished dinner the topic of Arlene Compton was forgotten and Dan had completely regained his good nature. They had coffee on his veranda--or, in Island parlance, lanai--which opened off one end of the living-room. This was of generous size, screened on three sides and stretching far down on to the white beach. Outside the brief tropic dusk dimmed the bright colors of Waikiki. "No breeze stirring," said Miss Minerva. "The trades have died," Dan answered. He referred to the beneficent winds which--save at rare, uncomfortable intervals--blow across the Islands out of the cool northeast. "I'm afraid we're in for a stretch of Kona weather." "I hope not," Miss Minerva said. "It saps the life right out of me nowadays," he told her, and sank into a chair. "That about being young, Minerva--it's a little bluff I'm fond of." She smiled gently. "Even youth finds the Kona hard to endure," she comforted. "I remember when I was here before--in the 'eighties. I was only nineteen, but the memory of the sick wind lingers still." "I missed you then, Minerva." "Yes. You were off somewhere in the South Seas." "But I heard about you when I came back. That you were tall and blonde and lovely, and nowhere near so prim as they feared you were going to be. A wonderful figure, they said--but you've got that yet." She flushed, but smiled still. "Hush, Dan. We don't talk that way where I come from." "The 'eighties," he sighed. "Hawaii was Hawaii then. Unspoiled, a land of opera bouffe, with old Kalakaua sitting on his golden throne." "I remember him," Miss Minerva said. "Grand parties at the palace. And the afternoons when he sat with his disreputable friends on the royal lanai, and the Royal Hawaiian Band played at his feet, and he haughtily tossed them royal pennies. It was such a colorful, naive spot then, Dan." "It's been ruined," he complained sadly. "Too much aping of the mainland. Too much of your damned mechanical civilization--automobiles, phonographs, radios--bah! And yet--and yet, Minerva--away down underneath there are deep dark waters flowing still." She nodded, and they sat for a moment busy with their memories. Presently Dan Winterslip snapped on a small reading light at his side. "I'll just glance at the evening paper, if you don't mind." "Oh, do," urged Miss Minerva. She was glad of a moment without talk. For this, after all, was the time she loved Waikiki best. So brief, this tropic dusk, so quick the coming of the soft alluring night. The carpet of the waters, apple-green by day, crimson and gold at sunset, was a deep purple now. On top of that extinct volcano called Diamond Head a yellow eye was winking, as though to hint there might still be fire beneath. Three miles down, the harbor lights began to twinkle, and out toward the reef the lanterns of Japanese sampans glowed intermittently. Beyond, in the roadstead, loomed the battered hulk of an old brig slowly moving toward the channel entrance. Always, out there, a ship or two, in from the East with a cargo of spice or tea or ivory, or eastward bound with a load of tractor salesmen. Ships of all sorts, the spic and span liner and the rakish tramp, ships from Melbourne and Seattle, New York and Yokohama, Tahiti and Rio, any port on the seven seas. For this was Honolulu, the Crossroads of the Pacific--the glamorous crossroads where, they said, in time all paths crossed again. Miss Minerva sighed. She was conscious of a quick movement on Dan's part. She turned and looked at him. He had laid the paper on his knee, and was staring straight ahead. That bluff about being young--no good now. For his face was old, old. "Why, Dan--" she said. "I--I'm wondering, Minerva," he began slowly. "Tell me again about that nephew of yours." She was surprised, but hid it. "John Quincy?" she said. "He's just the usual thing, for Boston. Conventional. His whole life has been planned for him, from the cradle to the grave. So far he's walked the line. The inevitable preparatory school, Harvard, the proper clubs, the family banking house--even gone and got himself engaged to the very girl his mother would have picked for him. There have been times when I hoped he might kick over--the war--but no, he came back and got meekly into the old rut." "Then he's reliable--steady?" Miss Minerva smiled. "Dan, compared with that boy, Gibraltar wobbles occasionally." "Discreet, I take it?" "He invented discretion. That's what I'm telling you. I love him--but a little bit of recklessness now and then--However, I'm afraid it's too late now. John Quincy is nearly thirty." Dan Winterslip was on his feet, his manner that of a man who had made an important decision. Beyond the bamboo curtain that hung in the door leading to the living-room a light appeared. "Haku!" Winterslip called. The Japanese servant came swiftly. "Haku, tell the chauffeur--quick--the big car! I must get to the dock before the PRESIDENT TYLER sails for San Francisco. Wikiwiki!" The servant disappeared into the living-room, and Winterslip followed. Somewhat puzzled, Miss Minerva sat for a moment, then rose and pushed aside the curtain. "Are you sailing, Dan?" she asked. He was seated at his desk, writing hurriedly. "No, no--just a note--I must get it off on that boat--" There was an air of suppressed excitement about him. Miss Minerva stepped over the threshold into the living-room. In another moment Haku appeared with an announcement that was unnecessary, for the engine of an automobile was humming in the drive. Dan Winterslip took his hat from Haku. "Make yourself at home, Minerva--I'll be back shortly," he cried, and rushed out. Some business matter, no doubt. Miss Minerva strolled aimlessly about the big airy room, pausing finally before the portrait of Jedediah Winterslip, the father of Dan and Amos, and her uncle. Dan had had it painted from a photograph after the old man's death; it was the work of an artist whose forte was reputed to be landscapes--oh it must assuredly have been landscapes, Miss Minerva thought. But even so there was no mistaking the power and personality of this New Englander who had set up in Honolulu as a whaler. The only time she had seen him, in the 'eighties, he had been broken and old, mourning his lost fortune, which had gone with his ships in an Arctic disaster a short time before. Well, Dan had brought the family back, Miss Minerva reflected. Won again that lost fortune and much more. There were queer rumors about his methods--but so there were about the methods of Bostonians who had never strayed from home. A charming fellow, whatever his past. Miss Minerva sat down at the grand piano and played a few old familiar bars--The Beautiful Blue Danube. Her thoughts went back to the 'eighties. Dan Winterslip was thinking of the 'eighties too as his car sped townward along Kalakaua Avenue. But it was the present that concerned him when they reached the dock and he ran, panting a little, through a dim pier-shed toward the gangplank of the PRESIDENT TYLER. He had no time to spare, the ship was on the point of sailing. Since it was a through boat from the Orient it left without the ceremonies that attend the departure of a liner plying only between Honolulu and the mainland. Even so, there were cries of "Aloha," some hearty and some tremulous, most of the travelers were bedecked with leis, and a confused little crowd milled about the foot of the plank. Dan Winterslip pushed his way forward and ran up the sharp incline. As he reached the dock he encountered an old acquaintance, Hepworth, the second officer. "You're the man I'm looking for," he cried. "How are you, sir," Hepworth said. "I didn't see your name on the list." "No, I'm not sailing. I'm here to ask a favor." "Glad to oblige, Mr. Winterslip." Winterslip thrust a letter into his hand. "You know my cousin Roger in 'Frisco. Please give him that--him and no one else--as soon after you land as you possibly can. I'm too late for the mail--and I prefer this way anyhow. I'll be mighty grateful." "Don't mention it--you've been very kind to me and I'll be only too happy--I'm afraid you'll have to go ashore, sir. Just a minute, there--" He took Winterslip's arm and gently urged him back on to the plank. The instant Dan's feet touched the dock, the plank was drawn up behind him. For a moment he stood, held by the fascination an Islander always feels at sight of a ship outward bound. Then he turned and walked slowly through the pier-shed. Ahead of him he caught a glimpse of a slender lithe figure which he recognized at once as that of Dick Kaohla, the grandson of Kamaikui. He quickened his pace and joined the boy. "Hello, Dick," he said. "Hello." The brown face was sullen, unfriendly. "You haven't been to see me for a long time," Dan Winterslip said. "Everything all right?" "Sure," replied Kaohla. "Sure it's all right." They reached the street, and the boy turned quickly away. "Good night," he muttered. Dan Winterslip stood for a moment, thoughtfully looking after him. Then he got into the car. "No hurry now," he remarked to the chauffeur. When he reappeared in his living-room, Miss Minerva glanced up from the book she was reading. "Were you in time, Dan?" she asked. "Just made it," he told her. "Good," she said, rising. "I'll take my book and go up-stairs. Pleasant dreams." He waited until she reached the door before he spoke. "Ah--Minerva--don't trouble to write your nephew about stopping here." "No, Dan?" she said, puzzled again. "No. I've attended to the invitation myself. Good night." "Oh--good night," she answered, and left him. Alone in the great room, he paced restlessly back and forth over the polished floor. In a moment he went out on to the lanai, and found the newspaper he had been reading earlier in the evening. He brought it back to the living-room and tried to finish it, but something seemed to trouble him. His eyes kept straying--straying--with a sharp exclamation he tore one corner from the shipping page, savagely ripped the fragment to bits. Again he got up and wandered about. He had intended paying a call down the beach, but that quiet presence in the room above--Boston in its more tolerant guise but Boston still--gave him pause. He returned to the lanai. There, under a mosquito netting, was the cot where he preferred to sleep; his dressing-room was near at hand. However, it was too early for bed. He stepped through the door on to the beach. Unmistakable, the soft treacherous breath of the Kona fanned his cheek--the "sick wind" that would pile the breakers high along the coast and blight temporarily this Island paradise. There was no moon, the stars that usually seemed so friendly and so close were now obscured. The black water rolled in like a threat. He stood staring out into the dark--out there to the crossroads where paths always crossed again. If you gave them time--if you only gave them time-- As he turned back, his eyes went to the algaroba tree beyond the wire, and he saw the yellow flare of a match. His brother Amos. He had a sudden friendly feeling for Amos, he wanted to go over and talk to him, talk of the far days when they played together on this beach. No use, he knew. He sighed, and the screen door of the lanai banged behind him--the screen door without a lock in a land where locks are few. Tired, he sat in the dark to think. His face was turned toward the curtain of bamboo between him and the living-room. On that curtain a shadow appeared, was motionless a second, then vanished. He caught his breath--again the shadow. "Who's there?" he called. A huge brown arm was thrust through the bamboo. A friendly brown face was framed there. "Your fruit I put on the table," said Kamaikui. "I go to bed now." "Of course. Go ahead. Good night." The woman withdrew. Dan Winterslip was furious with himself. What was the matter with him, anyhow? He who had fought his way through unspeakable terrors in the early days--nervous--on edge-- "Getting old," he muttered. "No, by heaven--it's the Kona. That's it. The Kona. I'll be all right when the trades blow again." When the trades blew again! He wondered. Here at the crossroads one could not be sure. CHAPTER II The High Hat John Quincy Winterslip walked aboard the ferry at Oakland feeling rather limp and weary. For more than six days he had been marooned on sleepers--his pause at Chicago had been but a flitting from one train to another--and he was fed up. Seeing America first--that was what he had been doing. And what an appalling lot of it there was! He felt that for an eternity he had been staring at endless plains, dotted here and there by unesthetic houses the inmates of which had unquestionably never heard a symphony concert. Ahead of him ambled a porter, bearing his two suitcases, his golf clubs and his hat-box. One of the man's hands was gone--chewed off, no doubt, in some amiable frontier scuffle. In its place he wore a steel hook. Well, no one could question the value of a steel hook to a man in the porter's profession. But how quaint--and western! The boy indicated a spot by the rail on the forward deck, and the porter began to unload. Carefully selecting the man's good hand, John Quincy dropped into it a tip so generous as to result in a touching of hook to cap in a weird salute. The object of this attention sank down amid his elaborate trappings, removed the straw hat from his perspiring head, and tried to figure out just what had happened to him. Three thousand miles from Beacon Street, and two thousand miles still to go! Why, he inquired sourly of his usually pleasant self, had he ever agreed to make this absurd expedition into heathen country? Here it was late June, Boston was at its best. Tennis at Longwood, long mild evenings in a single shell on the Charles, weekends and golf with Agatha Parker at Magnolia. And if one must travel, there was Paris. He hadn't seen Paris in two years and had been rather planning a quick run over, when his mother had put this preposterous notion into his head. Preposterous--it was all of that. Traveling five thousand miles just as a gentle hint to Aunt Minerva to return to her calm, well-ordered life behind purple window-panes on Beacon Street. And was there any chance that his strong-minded relative would take the hint? Not one in a thousand. Aunt Minerva was accustomed to do as she pleased--he had an uncomfortable, shocked recollection of one occasion when she had said she would do as she damn well pleased. John Quincy wished he was back. He wished he was crossing Boston Common to his office on State Street, there to put out a new issue of bonds. He was not yet a member of the firm--that was an honor accorded only to Winterslips who were bald and a little stooped--but his heart was in his work. He put out a bond issue with loving apprehension, waiting for the verdict as a playwright waits behind the scenes on a first night. Would those First Mortgage Sixes go over big, or would they flop at his feet? The hoarse boom of a ferry whistle recalled John Quincy to his present unbelievable location on the map. The boat began to move. He was dimly conscious of a young person of feminine gender who came and sat at his side. Away from the slip and out into the harbor the ferry carried John Quincy, and he suddenly sat up and took notice, for he was never blind to beauty, no matter where he encountered it. And he was encountering beauty now. The morning air was keen and dry and bright. Spread out before him was that harbor which is like a tired navigator's dream come true. They passed Goat Island, and he heard the faint echo of a bugle, he saw Tamalpias lifting its proud head toward the sparkling sky, he turned, and there was San Francisco scattered blithely over its many hills. The ferry plowed on, and John Quincy sat very still. A forest of masts and steam funnels--here was the water-front that had supplied the atmosphere for those romantic tales that held him spellbound when he was a boy at school--a quiet young Winterslip whom the gypsy strain had missed. Now he could distinguish a bark from Antwerp, a great liner from the Orient, a five-masted schooner that was reminiscent of those supposedly forgotten stories. Ships from the Treaty Ports, ships from cocoanut islands in southern seas. A picture as intriguing and colorful as a back drop in a theater--but far more real. Suddenly John Quincy stood up. A puzzled look had come into his calm gray eyes. "I--I don't understand," he murmured. He was startled by the sound of his own voice. He hadn't intended to speak aloud. In order not to appear too utterly silly, he looked around for some one to whom he might pretend he had addressed that remark. There was no one about--except the young person who was obviously feminine and therefore not to be informally accosted. John Quincy looked down at her. Spanish or something like that, blue-black hair, dark eyes that were alight now with the amusement she was striving to hide, a delicate oval face tanned a deep brown. He looked again at the harbor--beauty all about the boat, and beauty on it. Much better than traveling on trains! The girl looked up at John Quincy. She saw a big, broad-shouldered young man with a face as innocent as a child's. A bit of friendliness, she decided instantly, would not be misunderstood. "I beg your pardon," she said. "Oh--I--I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean--I spoke without intending--I said I didn't understand--" "You didn't understand what?" "A most amazing thing has happened," he continued. He sat down, and waved his hand toward the harbor. "I've been here before." She looked perplexed. "Lots of people have," she admitted. "But--you see--I mean--I've never been here before." She moved away from him. "Lots of people haven't." She admitted that, too. John Quincy took a deep breath. What was this discussion he had got into, anyhow? He had a quick impulse to lift his hat gallantly and walk away, letting the whole matter drop. But no, he came of a race that sees things through. "I'm from Boston," he said. "Oh," said the girl. That explained everything. "And what I'm trying to make clear--although of course there's no reason why I should have dragged you into it--" "None whatever," she smiled. "But go on." "Until a few days ago I was never west of New York, never in my whole life, you understand. Been about New England a bit, and abroad a few times, but the West--" "I know. It didn't interest you." "I wouldn't say that," protested John Quincy with careful politeness. "But there was such a lot of it--exploring it seemed a hopeless undertaking. And then--the family thought I ought to go, you see--so I rode and rode on trains and was--you'll pardon me--a bit bored. Now--I come into this harbor, I look around me, and I get the oddest feeling. I feel that I've been here before." The girl's face was sympathetic. "Other people have had that experience," she told him. "Choice souls, they are. You've been a long time coming, but you're home at last." She held out a slim brown hand. "Welcome to your city," she said. John Quincy solemnly shook hands. "Oh, no," he corrected gently. "Boston's my city. I belong there, naturally. But this--this is familiar." He glanced northward at the low hills sheltering the Valley of the Moon, then back at San Francisco. "Yes, I seem to have known my way about here once. Astonishing, isn't it?" "Perhaps--some of your ancestors--" "That's true. My grandfather came out here when he was a young man. He went home again--but his brothers stayed. It's the son of one of them I'm going to visit in Honolulu." "Oh--you're going on to Honolulu?" "To-morrow morning. Have you ever been there?" "Ye--es." Her dark eyes were serious. "See--there are the locks--that's where the East begins. The real East. And Telegraph Hill--" she pointed; no one in Boston ever points, but she was so lovely John Quincy overlooked it--"and Russian Hill and the Fairmont on Nob Hill." "Life must be full of ups and downs," he ventured lightly. "Tell me about Honolulu. Sort of a wild place, I imagine?" She laughed. "I'll let you discover for yourself how wild it is," she told him. "Practically all the leading families came originally from your beloved New England. 'Puritans with a touch of sun,' my father calls them. He's clever, my father," she added, in an odd childish tone that was wistful and at the same time challenging. "I'm sure of it," said John Quincy heartily. They were approaching the Ferry Building and other passengers crowded about them. "I'd help you with that suitcase of yours, but I've got all this truck. If we could find a porter--" "Don't bother," she answered. "I can manage very well." She was staring down at John Quincy's hat box. "I--I suppose there's a silk hat in there?" she inquired. "Naturally," replied John Quincy. She laughed--a rich, deep-throated laugh. John Quincy stiffened slightly. "Oh, forgive me," she cried. "But--a silk hat in Hawaii!" John Quincy stood erect. The girl had laughed at a Winterslip. He filled his lungs with the air sweeping in from the open spaces, the broad open spaces where men are men. A weird reckless feeling came over him. He stooped, picked up the hat box, and tossed it calmly over the rail. It bobbed indignantly away. The crowd closed in, not wishing to miss any further exhibition of madness. "That's that," said John Quincy quietly. "Oh," gasped the girl, "you shouldn't have done it!" And indeed, he shouldn't. The box was an expensive one, the gift of his admiring mother at Christmas. And the topper inside, worn in the gloaming along the water side of Beacon Street, had been known to add a touch of distinction even to that distinguished scene. "Why not?" asked John Quincy. "The confounded thing's been a nuisance ever since I left home. And besides we do look ridiculous at times, don't we? We easterners? A silk hat in the tropics! I might have been mistaken for a missionary." He began to gather up his luggage. "Shan't need a porter any more," he announced gaily. "I say--it was awfully kind of you--letting me talk to you like that." "It was fun," she told him. "I hope you're going to like us out here. We're so eager to be liked, you know. It's almost pathetic." "Well," smiled John Quincy, "I've met only one Californian to date. But--" "Yes?" "So far, so good!" "Oh, thank you." She moved away. "Please--just a moment," called John Quincy. "I hope--I mean, I wish--" But the crowd surged between them. He saw her dark eyes smiling at him and then, irrevocably as the hat, she drifted from his sight. CHAPTER III Midnight On Russian Hill A Few Moments later John Quincy stepped ashore in San Francisco. He had taken not more than three steps across the floor of the Ferry Building when a dapper Japanese chauffeur pushed through the crowd and singling out the easterner with what seemed uncanny perspicacity, took complete charge of him. Roger Winterslip, the chauffeur announced, was too busy to meet ferries, but had sent word that the boy was to go up to the house and after establishing himself comfortably there, join his host for lunch down-town. Gratified to feel solid ground once more beneath his feet, John Quincy followed the chauffeur to the street. San Francisco glittered under the morning sun. "I always thought this was a foggy town," John Quincy said. The Japanese grinned. "Maybe fog will come, maybe it will not. Just now one time maybe it will not. Please." He held open the car door. Through bright streets where life appeared to flow with a pleasant rhythm, they bowled along. Beside the curbs stood the colorful carts of the flower venders, unnecessarily painting the lily of existence. Weary traveler though he was, John Quincy took in with every breath a fresh supply of energy. New ambitions stirred within him; bigger, better bond issues than ever before seemed ridiculously easy of attainment. Roger Winterslip had not been among those lured to suburban life down the peninsula; he resided in bachelor solitude on Nob Hill. It was an ancient, battered house viewed from without, but within, John Quincy found, were all known comforts. A bent old Chinese man showed him his room and his heart leaped up when he beheld, at last, a veritable bath. At one o'clock he sought out the office where his relative carried on, with conspicuous success, his business as an engineer and builder. Roger proved a short florid man in his late fifties. "Hello, son," he cried cordially. "How's Boston?" "Every one is quite well," said John Quincy. "You're being extremely kind--" "Nonsense. It's a pleasure to see you. Come along." He took John Quincy to a famous club for lunch. In the grill he pointed out several well-known writers. The boy was not unduly impressed, for Longfellow, Whittier and Lowell were not among them. Nevertheless it was a pleasant place, the service perfect, the food of an excellence rare on the codfish coast. "And what," asked Roger presently, "do you think of San Francisco?" "I like it," John Quincy said simply. "No? Do you really mean that?" Roger beamed. "Well, it's the sort of place that ought to appeal to a New Englander. It's had a history, brief, but believe me, my boy, one crowded hour of glorious life. It's sophisticated, knowing, subtle. Contrast it with other cities--for instance, take Los Angeles--" He was off on a favorite topic and he talked well. "Writers," he said at last, "are for ever comparing cities to women. San Francisco is the woman you don't tell the folks at home an awful lot about. Not that she wasn't perfectly proper--I don't mean that--but her stockings were just a little thinner and her laugh a little gayer--people might misunderstand. Besides, the memory is too precious to talk about. Hello." A tall, lean, handsome Englishman was crossing the grill on his way out. "Cope! Cope, my dear fellow!" Roger sped after him and dragged him back. "I knew you at once," he was saying, "though it must be more than forty years since I last saw you." The Britisher dropped into a chair. He smiled a wry smile. "My dear old chap," he said. "Not so literal, if you don't mind." "Rot!" protested Roger. "What do years matter? This is a young cousin of mine, John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. Ah--er--just what is your title now?" "Captain. I'm in the Admiralty." "Really? Captain Arthur Temple Cope, John Quincy." Roger turned to the Englishman. "You were a midshipman, I believe, when we met in Honolulu. I was talking to Dan about you not a year ago--" An expression of intense dislike crossed the captain's face. "Ah, yes, Dan. Alive and prospering, I presume?" "Oh, yes," answered Roger. "Isn't it damnable," remarked Cope, "how the wicked thrive?" An uncomfortable silence fell. John Quincy was familiar with the frankness of Englishmen, but he was none the less annoyed by this open display of hostility toward his prospective host. After all, Dan's last name was Winterslip. "Ah--er--have a cigarette," suggested Roger. "Thank you--have one of mine," said Cope, taking out a silver case. "Virginia tobacco, though they are put up in Piccadilly. No? And you, sir--" He held the case before John Quincy, who refused a bit stiffly. The captain nonchalantly lighted up. "I beg your pardon--what I said about your cousin," he began. "But really, you know--" "No matter," said Roger cordially. "Tell me what you're doing here." "On my way to Hawaii," explained the captain. "Sailing at three to-day on the Australian boat. A bit of a job for the Admiralty. From Honolulu I drop down to the Fanning Group--a little flock of islands that belongs to us," he added with a fine paternal air. "A possible coaling station," smiled Roger. "My dear fellow--the precise nature of my mission is, of course, a secret." Captain Cope looked suddenly at John Quincy. "By the way, I once knew a very charming girl from Boston. A relative of yours, no doubt." "A--a girl," repeated John Quincy, puzzled. "Minerva Winterslip." "Why," said John Quincy, amazed, "you mean my Aunt Minerva." The captain smiled. "She was no one's aunt in those days," he said. "Nothing auntish about her. But that was in Honolulu in the 'eighties--we'd put in there on the old wooden Reliance--the poor unlucky ship was limping home crippled from Samoa. Your aunt was visiting at that port--there were dances at the palace, swimming parties--ah, me, to be young again." "Minerva's in Honolulu now," Roger told him. "No--really?" "Yes. She's stopping with Dan." "With Dan." The captain was silent for a moment. "Her husband--" "Minerva never married," Roger explained. "Amazing," said the captain. He blew a ring of smoke toward the paneled ceiling. "The more shame to the men of Boston. My time is hardly my own, but I shall hope to look in on her." He rose. "This was a bit of luck--meeting you again, old chap. I'm due aboard the boat very shortly--you understand, of course." He bowed to them both, and departed. "Fine fellow," Roger said, staring after him. "Frank and British, but a splendid chap." "I wasn't especially pleased," John Quincy admitted, "by the way he spoke of Cousin Dan." Roger laughed. "Better get used to it," he advised. "Dan is not passionately beloved. He's climbed high, you know, and he's trampled down a few on his way up. By the way, he wants you to do an errand for him here in San Francisco." "Me!" cried John Quincy. "An errand?" "Yes. You ought to feel flattered. Dan doesn't trust everybody. However, it's something that must wait until dark." "Until dark," repeated the puzzled young man from Boston. "Precisely. In the meantime I propose to show you about town." "But--you're busy. I couldn't think of taking you away--" Roger laid his hand on John Quincy's shoulder. "My boy, no westerner is ever too busy to show a man from the East about his city. I've been looking forward to this chance for weeks. And since you insist on sailing tomorrow at ten, we must make the most of our time." Roger proved an adept at making the most of one's time in San Francisco. After an exhilarating afternoon of motoring over the town and the surrounding country, he brought John Quincy back to the house at six, urging him to dress quickly for a dinner of which he apparently had great hopes. The boy's trunk was in his room, and as he put on a dinner coat he looked forward with lively anticipation to a bit of San Francisco night life in Roger's company. When he came down-stairs his host was waiting, a distinguished figure in his dinner clothes, and they set out blithely through the gathering dusk. "Little place I want you to try," Roger explained as they sat down at a table in a restaurant that was outwardly of no special note. "Afterward we'll look in on that musical show at the Columbia." The restaurant more than justified Roger's hopes of it. John Quincy began to glow with a warm friendly feeling for all the world, particularly this city by the western gate. He did not think of himself as a stranger here. He wasn't a stranger, anyhow. The sensation he had first experienced in the harbor returned to him. He had been here before, he was treading old familiar ground. In far, forgotten, happy times he had known the life of this city's streets. Strange, but true. He spoke to Roger about it. Roger smiled. "A Winterslip, after all," he said. "And they told me you were just a sort of--of Puritan survival. My father used to know that sensation you speak of, only he felt it whenever he entered a new town. Might be something in reincarnation, after all." "Nonsense," said John Quincy. "Probably. Just the blood of the roaming Winterslips in your veins." He leaned across the table. "How would you like to come to San Francisco to live?" "Wha--what?" asked John Quincy, startled. "I'm getting along in years, and I'm all alone. Lots of financial details in my office--take you in there and let you look after them. Make it worth your while." "No, no, thank you," said John Quincy firmly. "I belong back east. Besides, I could never persuade Agatha to come out here." "Agatha who?" "Agatha Parker--the girl I'm engaged to--in a way. Been sort of understood between us for several years. No," he added, "I guess I'd better stay where I belong." Roger Winterslip looked his disappointment. "Probably had," he admitted. "I fancy no girl with that name would follow you here. Though a girl worth having will follow her man anywhere--but no matter." He studied John Quincy keenly for a moment. "I must have been wrong about you, anyhow." John Quincy felt a sudden resentment. "Just what do you mean by that?" he inquired. "In the old days," Roger said, "Winterslips were the stuff of which pioneers are made. They didn't cling to the apron-strings of civilization. They got up some fine morning and nonchalantly strolled off beyond the horizon. They lived--but there, you're of another generation. You can't understand." "Why can't I?" demanded John Quincy. "Because the same old rut has evidently been good enough for you. You've never known a thrill. Or have you? Have you ever forgot to go to bed because of some utterly silly reason--because, for example, you were young and the moon was shining on a beach lapped by southern seas? Have you ever lied like a gentleman to protect a woman not worth the trouble? Ever made love to the wrong girl?" "Of course not," said John Quincy stiffly. "Ever run for your life through crooked streets in the rowdy quarter of a strange town? Ever fought with a ship's officer--the old-fashioned kind with fists like flying hams? Ever gone out on a man hunt and when you got your quarry cornered, leaped upon him with no weapon but your bare hands? Have you ever--" "The type of person you describe," John Quincy cut in, "is hardly admirable." "Probably not," Roger agreed. "And yet--those are incidents from my own past, my boy." He regarded John Quincy sadly. "Yes, I must have been wrong about you. A Puritan survival after all." John Quincy deigned no reply. There was an odd light in the older man's eyes--was Roger secretly laughing at him? He appeared to be, and the boy resented it. But he forgot to be resentful at the revue, which proved to be witty and gay, and Roger and he emerged from the theater at eleven the best of friends again. As they stepped into Roger's car, the older man gave the chauffeur an address on Russian Hill. "Dan's San Francisco house," he explained, as he climbed in after John Quincy. "He comes over about two months each year, and keeps a place here. Got more money than I have." Dan's San Francisco house? "Oh," said John Quincy, "the errand you mentioned?" Roger nodded. "Yes." He snapped on a light in the top of the limousine, and took an envelope from his pocket. "Read this letter. It was delivered to me two days ago by the Second Officer of the PRESIDENT TYLER." John Quincy removed a sheet of note paper from the envelope. The message appeared to be rather hastily scrawled. "DEAR ROGER," he read. "You can do me a great service--you and that discreet lad from Boston who is to stop over with you on his way out here. First of all, give John Quincy my regards and tell him that he must make my house his home while he is in the Islands. I'll be delighted to have him. "About the errand. You have a key to my house on Russian Hill. Go up there--better go at night when the caretaker's not likely to be around. The lights are off, but you'll find candles in the pantry. In the store room on the top floor is an old brown trunk. Locked, probably--mash the lock if it is. In the lower section you'll find a battered strong box made of ohia wood and bound with copper. Initials on it--T.M.B. "Wrap it up and take it away. It's rather an armful, but you can manage it. Have John Quincy conceal it in his luggage and some dark night when the ship's about half-way over, I want him to take it on deck and quietly drop it overboard. Tell him to be sure nobody sees him. That's all. But send me a guarded cable when you get the box, and tell him to send me a radio when the Pacific has it at last. I'll sleep better then. "Not a word, Roger. Not a word to any one. You'll understand. Sometimes the dead past needs a bit of help in burying its dead. "YOUR COUSIN DAN." Solemnly John Quincy handed the letter back into Roger's keeping. The older man thoughtfully tore it to bits and tossed them through the car window open beside him. "Well," said John Quincy. "Well--" A fitting comment eluded him. "Simple enough," smiled Roger. "If we can help poor old Dan to sleep better as easily as that, we must do it, eh?" "I--I suppose so," John Quincy agreed. They had climbed Russian Hill, and were speeding along a deserted avenue lined by imposing mansions. Roger leaned forward. "Go on to the corner," he said to the chauffeur. "We can walk back," he explained to John Quincy. "Best not to leave the car before the house. Might excite suspicion." Still John Quincy had no comment to make. They alighted at the corner and walked slowly back along the avenue. In front of a big stone house, Roger paused. He looked carefully in all directions, then ran with surprising speed up the steps. "Come on," he called softly. John Quincy came. Roger unlocked the door and they stepped into a dark vestibule. Beyond that, darker still, was a huge hall, the dim suggestion of a grand staircase. Here and there an article of furniture, shrouded in white, stood like a ghost, marooned but patient. Roger took out a box of matches. "Meant to bring a flashlight," he said, "but I clean forgot. Wait here--I'll hunt those candles in the pantry." He went off into the dark. John Quincy took a few cautious steps. He was about to sit down on a chair--but it was like sitting on the lap of a ghost. He changed his mind, stood in the middle of the floor, waited. Quiet, deathly quiet. The black had swallowed Roger, with not so much as a gurgle. After what seemed an age, Roger returned, bearing two lighted candles. One each, he explained. John Quincy took his, held it high. The flickering yellow flame accentuated the shadows, was really of small help. Roger led the way up the grand staircase, then up a narrower flight. At the foot of still another flight, in a stuffy passage on the third floor, he halted. "Here we are," he said. "This leads to the storage room under the roof. By gad, I'm getting too old for this sort of thing. I meant to bring a chisel to use on that lock. I know where the tools are--I'll be gone only a minute. You go on up and locate the trunk." "All--all right," answered John Quincy. Again Roger left him. John Quincy hesitated. Something about a deserted house at midnight to dismay the stoutest heart--but nonsense! He was a grown man. He smiled, and started up the narrow stair. High above his head the yellow light of the candle flickered on the brown rafters of the unfinished store room. He reached the top of the stairs, and paused. Gloom, gloom everywhere. Odd how floor boards will creak even when no one is moving over them. One was creaking back of him now. He was about to turn when a hand reached from behind and knocked the candle out of his grasp. It rolled on the floor, extinguished. This was downright rude! "See here," cried John Quincy, "wh--who are you?" A bit of moonlight struggled in through a far window, and suddenly between John Quincy and that distant light there loomed the determined figure of a man. Something told the boy he had better get ready, but where he came from one had a moment or two for preparation. He had none here. A fist shot out and found his face, and John Quincy Winterslip of Boston went down amid the rubbish of a San Francisco attic. He heard, for a second, the crash of planets in collision, and then the clatter of large feet on the stairs. After that, he was alone with the debris. He got up, thoroughly angry, and began brushing off the dinner coat that had been his tailor's pride. Roger arrived. "Who was that?" he demanded breathlessly. "Somebody went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Who was it?" "How should I know?" inquired John Quincy with pardonable peevishness. "He didn't introduce himself to me." His cheek was stinging; he put his handkerchief to it and noted in the light of Roger's candle that it was red when it came away. "He wore a ring," added John Quincy. "Damned bad taste!" "Hit you, eh?" inquired Roger. "I'll say he did." "Look!" Roger cried. He pointed. "The trunk-lock smashed." He went over to investigate. "And the box is gone. Poor old Dan!" John Quincy continued to brush himself off. Poor old Dan's plight gave him a vast pain, a pain which had nothing to do with his throbbing jaw. A fine nerve poor old Dan had to ask a complete stranger to offer his face for punishment in a dusty attic at midnight. What was it all about, anyhow? Roger continued his search. "No use," he announced. "The box is gone, that's plain. Come on, we'll go down-stairs and look about. There's your candle on the floor." John Quincy picked up the candle and relighted it from Roger's flame. Silently they went below. The outer door of the kitchen stood open. "Left that way," said Roger. "And see"--he pointed to a window with a broken pane--"that's where he came in." "How about the police?" suggested John Quincy. Roger stared at him. "The police? I should say not! Where's your discretion, my boy? This is not a police matter. I'll have a new glass put in that window to-morrow. Come on--we might as well go home. We've failed." The note of reproof in his voice angered John Quincy anew. They left the extinguished candles on a table in the hall, and returned to the street. "Well, I'll have to cable Dan," Roger said, as they walked toward the corner. "I'm afraid he'll be terribly upset by this. It won't tend to endear you to him, either." "I can struggle along," said John Quincy, "without his affection." "If you could only have held that fellow till I came--" "Look here," said John Quincy, "I was taken unawares. How could I know that I was going up against the heavyweight champion in that attic? He came at me out of the dark--and I'm not in condition--" "No offense, my boy," Roger put in. "I see my mistake," went on John Quincy. "I should have trained for this trip out here. A stiff course in a gymnasium. But don't worry. The next lad that makes a pass at me will find a different target. I'll do a daily three dozen and I'll take boxing lessons. From now on until I get home, I'll be expecting the worst." Roger laughed. "That's a nasty cut on your cheek," he remarked. "We'd better stop at this drug store and have it dressed." A solicitous drug clerk ministered to John Quincy with iodine, cotton and court plaster, and he reentered the limousine bearing honorably the scar of battle. The drive to Nob Hill was devoid of light chatter. Just inside the door of Roger's house, a whirlwind in a gay gown descended upon them. "Barbara!" Roger said. "Where did you come from?" "Hello, old dear," she cried, kissing him. "I motored up from Burlingame. Spending the night with you--I'm sailing on the PRESIDENT TYLER in the morning. Is this John Quincy?" "Cousin John," smiled Roger. "He deserves a kiss, too. He's had a bad evening." The girl moved swiftly toward the defenseless John Quincy. Again he was unprepared, and this time it was his other cheek that suffered, though not unpleasantly. "Just by way of welcome," Barbara laughed. She was blonde and slender. John Quincy thought he had never seen so much energy imprisoned in so slight a form. "I hear you're bound for the Islands?" she said. "To-morrow," John Quincy answered. "On your boat." "Splendid!" she cried. "When did you get in?" "John Quincy came this morning," Roger told her. "And he's had a bad evening?" the girl said. "How lucky I came along. Where are you taking us, Roger?" John Quincy stared. Taking them? At this hour? "I'll be getting along up-stairs," he ventured. "Why, it's just after twelve," said Barbara. "Lots of places open. You dance, don't you? Let me show you San Francisco. Roger's a dear old thing--we'll let him pay the checks." "Well--I--I--" stammered John Quincy. His cheek was throbbing and he thought longingly of that bed in the room up-stairs. What a place, this West! "Come along!" The girl was humming a gay little tune. All vivacity, all life. Rather pleasant sort at that. John Quincy took up his hat. Roger's chauffeur had lingered a moment before the house to inspect his engine. When he saw them coming down the steps, he looked as though he rather wished he hadn't. But escape was impossible; he climbed to his place behind the wheel. "Where to, Barbara?" Roger asked. "Tait's?" "Not Tait's," she answered. "I've just come from there." "What! I thought you motored in from Burlingame?" "So I did--at five. I've traveled a bit since then. How about some chop-suey for this Boston boy?" Good lord, John Quincy thought. Was there anything in the world he wanted less? No matter. Barbara took him among the Chinese. He didn't give a hang about the Chinese. Nor the Mexicans, whose restaurants interested the girl next. At the moment, he was unsympathetic toward Italy. And even toward France. But he struggled on the international round, affronting his digestion with queer dishes, and dancing thousands of miles with the slim Barbara in his arms. After scrambled eggs at a place called Pete's Fashion, she consented to call it an evening. As John Quincy staggered into Roger's house, the great clock in the hall was striking three. The girl was still alert and sparkling. John Quincy hastily concealed a yawn. "All wrong to come home so early," she cried. "But we'll have a dance or two on the boat. By the way, I've been wanting to ask. What does it mean? The injured cheek?" "Why--er--I--" John Quincy remarked. Over the girl's shoulder he saw Roger violently shaking his head. "Oh, that," said John Quincy, lightly touching the wound. "That's where the West begins. Good night. I've had a bully time." And at last he got up-stairs. He stood for a moment at his bedroom window, gazing down at the torchlight procession of the streets through this amazing city. He was a little dazed. That soft warm presence close by his side in the car--pleasant, very pleasant. Remarkable girls out here. Different! Beyond shone the harbor lights. That other girl--wonderful eyes she had. Just because she had laughed at him, his treasured hat box floated now forlorn on those dark waters. He yawned again. Better be careful. Mustn't be so easily influenced. No telling where it would end. CHAPTER IV A Friend Of Tim's It was another of those mornings on which the fog maybe did not come. Roger and his guests were in the limousine again; it seemed to John Quincy that they had left it only a few minutes before. So it must have seemed to the chauffeur too as, sleepy-eyed, he hurried them toward the water-front. "By the way, John Quincy," Roger said, "you'll want to change your money before you go aboard." John Quincy gathered his wandering thoughts. "Oh, yes, of course," he answered. Roger smiled. "Just what sort of money would you like to change it for?" he inquired. "Why--" began John Quincy. He stopped. "Why, I always thought--" "Don't pay any attention to Roger," Barbara laughed. "He's spoofing you." She was fresh and blooming, a little matter like three A.M. made no difference to her. "Only about one person out of a thousand in this country knows that Hawaii is a part of the United States, and the fact annoys us deeply over in the Islands. Dear old Roger was trying to get you in wrong with me by enrolling you among the nine hundred and ninety-nine." "Almost did it, too," chuckled Roger. "Nonsense," said Barbara. "John Quincy is too intelligent. He's not like that congressman who wrote a letter to 'the American Consul at Honolulu'." "Did one of them do that?" smiled John Quincy. "He certainly did. We almost gave up the struggle after that. Then there was the senator who came out on a junket, and began a speech with: 'When I get home to my country--' Some one in the audience shouted: 'You're there now, you big stiff!' It wasn't elegant, of course, but it expressed our feeling perfectly. Oh, we're touchy, John Quincy." "Don't blame you a bit," he told her. "I'll very careful what I say." They had reached the Embarcadero, and the car halted before one of the piers. The chauffeur descended and began to gather up the baggage. Roger and John Quincy took a share of it, and they traversed the pier-shed to the gangplank. "Get along to your office, Roger," Barbara said. "No hurry," he answered. "I'll go aboard with you, of course." Amid the confusion of the deck, a party of girls swept down on Barbara, pretty lively girls of the California brand. John Quincy learned with some regret that they were there only to see Barbara off. A big broad-shouldered man in white pushed his way through the crowd. "Hello there!" he called to Barbara. "Hello, Harry," she answered. "You know Roger, don't you? John Quincy, this is an old friend of mine, Harry Jennison." Mr. Jennison was extremely good-looking, his face was deeply tanned by the Island sun, his hair blond and wavy, his gray eyes amused and cynical. Altogether, he was the type of man women look at twice and never forget; John Quincy felt himself at once supplanted in the eyes of Barbara's friends. Jennison seized the boy's hand in a firm grip. "Sailing too, Mr. Winterslip?" he inquired. "That's good. Between us we ought to be able to keep this young woman entertained." The shore call sounded, and the confusion increased. Along the deck came a little old lady, followed by a Chinese woman servant. They walked briskly, and the crowd gave way before them. "Hello--this is luck," cried Roger. "Madame Maynard--just a moment. I want you to meet a cousin of mine from Boston." He introduced John Quincy. "I give him into your charge. Couldn't find a better guide, philosopher and friend for him if I combed the Islands." The old lady glanced at John Quincy. Her black eyes snapped. "Another Winterslip, eh?" she said. "Hawaii's all cluttered up with 'em now. Well, the more the merrier. I know your aunt." "Stick close to her, John Quincy," Roger admonished. She shook her head. "I'm a million years old," she protested. "The boys don't stick so close any more. They like 'em younger. However, I'll keep my eye on him. My good eye. Well, Roger, run over some time." And she moved away. "A grand soul," said Roger, smiling after her. "You'll like her. Old missionary family, and her word's law over there." "Who's this Jennison?" asked John Quincy. "Him?" Roger glanced over to where Mr. Jennison stood, the center of an admiring feminine group. "Oh, he's Dan's lawyer. One of the leading citizens of Honolulu, I believe. John J. Adonis himself, isn't he?" An officer appeared, herding the reluctant throng toward the gangplank. "I'll have to leave you, John Quincy. A pleasant journey. When you come through on your way home, give me a few more days to try to convince you on my San Francisco offer." John Quincy laughed. "You've been mighty kind." "Not at all." Roger shook his hand warmly. "Take care of yourself over there. Hawaii's a little too much like Heaven to be altogether safe. So long, my boy, so long." He moved away. John Quincy saw him kiss Barbara affectionately and with her friends join the slow procession ashore. The young man from Boston stepped to the rail. Several hundred voices were calling admonitions, promises, farewells. With that holiday spirit so alien to John Quincy's experience, those ashore were throwing confetti. The streamers grew in number, making a tangle of color, a last frail bond with the land. The gangplank was taken up; clumsily the PRESIDENT TYLER began to draw away from the pier. On the topmost deck a band was playing--Aloha-oe, the sweetest, most melancholy song of good-by ever written. John Quincy was amazed to feel a lump rising in his throat. The frail, gay-colored bond was breaking now. A thin veined hand at John Quincy's side waved a handkerchief. He turned to find Mrs. Maynard. There were tears on her cheeks. "Silly old woman," she said. "Sailed away from this town a hundred and twenty-eight times. Actual count--I keep a diary. Cried every time. What about? I don't know." The ship was well out in the harbor now. Barbara came along, Jennison trailing her. The girl's eyes were wet. "An emotional lot, we Islanders," said the old lady. She put her arm about the girl's slim waist. "Here's another one of 'em. Living way off the way we do, any good-by at all--it saddens us." She and Barbara moved on down the deck. Jennison stopped. His eyes were quite dry. "First trip out?" he inquired. "Oh, yes," replied John Quincy. "Hope you'll like us," Jennison said. "Not Massachusetts, of course, but we'll do our best to make you feel at home. It's a way we have with strangers." "I'm sure I shall have a bully time," John Quincy remarked. But he felt somewhat depressed. Three thousand miles from Beacon Street--and moving on! He waved to some one he fancied might be Roger on the dock, and went to find his stateroom. He learned that he was to share his cabin with two missionaries. One was a tall, gloomy old man with a lemon-colored face--an honored veteran of the foreign field named Upton. The other was a ruddy-cheeked boy whose martyrdom was still before him. John Quincy suggested drawing lots for a choice of berths, but even this mild form of gambling appeared distasteful to those emissaries of the church. "You boys take the berths," said Upton. "Leave me the couch. I don't sleep well anyhow." His tone was that of one who prefers to suffer. John Quincy politely objected. After further discussion it was settled that he was to have the upper berth, the old man the lower, and the boy the couch. The Reverend Mr. Upton seemed disappointed. He had played the role of martyr so long he resented seeing any one else in the part. The Pacific was behaving in a most unfriendly manner, tossing the great ship about as though it were a piece of driftwood. John Quincy decided to dispense with lunch, and spent the afternoon reading in his berth. By evening he felt better, and under the watchful and somewhat disapproving eyes of the missionaries, arrayed himself carefully for dinner. His name being Winterslip, he had been invited to sit at the captain's table. He found Madame Maynard, serene and twinkling, at the captain's right, Barbara at his left, and Jennison at Barbara's side. It appeared that oddly enough there was an aristocracy of the Islands, and John Quincy, while he thought it quaint there should be such distinctions in an outpost like Hawaii, took his proper place as a matter of course. Mrs. Maynard chatted brightly of her many trips over this route. Suddenly she turned to Barbara. "How does it happen, my dear," she asked, "that you're not on the college boat?" "All booked up," Barbara explained. "Nonsense," said the frank old lady. "You could have got on. But then"--she looked meaningly toward Jennison--"I presume this ship was not without its attractions." The girl flushed slightly and made no reply. "What," John Quincy inquired, "is the college boat?" "So many children from Hawaii at school on the mainland," the old lady explained, "that every June around this time they practically fill a ship. We call it the college boat. This year it's the Matsonia. She left San Francisco to-day at noon." "I've got a lot of friends aboard her," Barbara said. "I do wish we could beat her in. Captain, what are the chances?" "Well, that depends," replied the captain cautiously. "She isn't due until Tuesday morning," Barbara persisted. "Wouldn't it be a lark if you could land us the night before? As a favor to me, Captain." "When you look at me like that," smiled the officer, "I can only say that I'll make a supreme effort. I'm just as eager as you to make port on Monday--it would mean I could get off to the Orient that much sooner." "Then it's settled," Barbara beamed. "It's settled that we'll try," he said. "Of course, if I speed up there's always the chance I may arrive off Honolulu after sundown, and be compelled to lay by until morning. That would be torture for you." "I'll risk it," Barbara smiled. "Wouldn't dear old dad be pleased if I should burst upon his vision Monday evening?" "My dear girl," the captain said gallantly, "any man would be pleased to have you burst upon his vision any time." There was, John Quincy reflected, much in what the captain said. Up to that moment there had been little of the romantic in his relations with girls; he was accustomed to look upon them merely as tennis or golf opponents or a fourth at bridge. Barbara would demand a different classification. There was an enticing gleam in her blue eyes, a hint of the eternal feminine in everything she did or said, and John Quincy was no wooden man. He was glad that when he left the dinner table, she accompanied him. They went on deck and stood by the rail. Night had fallen, there was no moon, and it seemed to John Quincy that the Pacific was the blackest, angriest ocean he had ever seen. He stood gazing at it gloomily. "Homesick, John Quincy?" Barbara asked. One of his hands was resting on the rail. She laid her own upon it. He nodded. "It's a funny thing. I've been abroad a lot, but I never felt like this. When the ship left port this morning, I nearly wept." "It's not so very funny," she said gently. "This is an alien world you're entering now. Not Boston, John Quincy, nor any other old, civilized place. Not the kind of place where the mind rules. Out here it's the heart that charts our course. People you're fond of do the wildest, most unreasonable things, simply because their minds are sleeping and their hearts are beating fast. Just--just remember, please, John Quincy." There was an odd note of wistfulness in her voice. Suddenly at their side appeared the white-clad figure of Harry Jennison. "Coming for a stroll, Barbara?" he inquired. For a moment she did not reply. Then she nodded. "Yes," she said. And called over her shoulder as she went: "Cheer up, John Quincy." He watched her go, reluctantly. She might have stayed to assuage his loneliness. But there she walked along the dim deck, close to Jennison's side. After a time, he sought the smoking-room. It was deserted, but on one of the tables lay a copy of the Boston Transcript. Delighted, John Quincy pounced upon it, as Robinson Crusoe might have pounced on news from home. The issue was ten days old, but no matter. He turned at once to the financial pages. There it was, like the face of a well-beloved friend, the record of one day's trading on the Stock Exchange. And up in one corner, the advertisement of his own banking house, offering an issue of preferred stock in a Berkshire cotton mill. He read eagerly, but with an odd detached feeling. He was gone, gone from that world, away out here on a black ocean bound for picture-book islands. Islands where, not so long ago, brown tribes had battled, brown kings ruled. There seemed no link with that world back home, those gay-colored streamers of confetti breaking so readily had been a symbol. He was adrift. What sort of port would claim him in the end? He threw the paper down. The Reverend Mr. Upton entered the smoking-room. "I left my newspaper here," he explained. "Ah--did you care to look at it?" "Thank you, I have," John Quincy told him. The old man picked it up in a great bony hand. "I always buy a Transcript when I get the chance," he said. "It carries me back. You know, I was born in Salem, over seventy years ago." John Quincy stared at him. "You've been a long time out here?" he asked. "More than fifty years in the foreign field," answered the old man. "I was one of the first to go to the South Seas. One of the first to carry the torch down there--and a dim torch it was, I'm afraid. Afterward I was transferred to China." John Quincy regarded him with a new interest. "By the way, sir," the missionary continued, "I once met another gentleman named Winterslip. Mr. Daniel Winterslip." "Really?" said John Quincy. "He's a cousin of mine. I'm to visit him in Honolulu." "Yes? I heard he had returned to Hawaii, and prospered. I met him just once--in the 'eighties, it was, on a lonely island in the Gilbert group. It was--rather a turning point in his life, and I have never forgotten." John Quincy waited to hear more, but the old missionary moved away. "I'll go and enjoy my Transcript," he smiled. "The church news is very competently handled." John Quincy rose and went aimlessly outside. A dreary scene, the swish of turbulent waters, dim figures aimless as himself, an occasional ship's officer hurrying by. His stateroom opened directly on the deck and he sank into a steamer chair just outside the door. In the distance he saw his room steward, weaving his way in and out of the cabins under his care. The man was busy with his last duties for the night, refilling water carafes, laying out towels, putting things generally to rights. "Evening, sir," he said as he entered John Quincy's room. Presently he came and stood in the door, the cabin light at his back. He was a small man with gold-rimmed eye-glasses and a fierce gray pompadour. "Everything O.K., Mr. Winterslip?" he inquired. "Yes, Bowker," smiled John Quincy. "Everything's fine." "That's good," said Bowker. He switched off the cabin light and stepped out on to the deck. "I aim to take particular care of you, sir. Saw your home town on the sailing list. I'm an old Boston man myself." "Is that so?" said John Quincy cordially. Evidently the Pacific was a Boston suburb. "Not born there, I don't mean," the man went on. "But a newspaper man there for ten years. It was just after I left the University." John Quincy started through the dark. "Harvard?" he asked. "Dublin," said the steward. "Yes, sir--" He laughed an embarrassed little laugh. "You might not think it now, but the University of Dublin, Class of 1901. And after that, for ten years, working in Boston on the Gazette--reporting, copy desk, managing editor for a time. Maybe I bumped into you there--at the Adams House bar, say, on a night before a football game." "Quite possible," admitted John Quincy. "One bumped into so many people on such occasions." "Don't I know it?" Mr. Bowker leaned on the rail, in reminiscent mood. "Great times, sir. Those were the good old days when a newspaper man who wasn't tanked up was a reproach to a grand profession. The Gazette was edited mostly from a place called the Arch Inn. We'd bring our copy to the city editor there--he had a regular table--a bit sloppy on top, but his desk. If we had a good story, maybe he'd stand us a cocktail." John Quincy laughed. "Happy days," continued the Dublin graduate, with a sigh. "I knew every bartender in Boston well enough to borrow money. Were you ever in that place in the alley back of the Tremont Theater--?" "Tim's place," suggested John Quincy, recalling an incident of college days. "Yeah, bo. Now you're talking. I wonder what became of Tim. Say, and there was that place on Boylston--but they're all gone now, of course. An old pal I met in 'Frisco was telling me it would break your heart to see the cobwebs on the mirrors back in Beantown. Gone to the devil, just like my profession. The newspapers go on consolidating, doubling up, combining the best features of both, and an army of good men go on the town. Good men and true, moaning about the vanished days and maybe landing in jobs like this one of mine." He was silent for a moment. "Well, sir, anything I can do for you--as a mutual friend of Tim's--" "As a friend of Tim's," smiled John Quincy, "I'll not hesitate to mention it." Sadly Bowker went on down the deck. John Quincy sat lonely again. A couple passed, walking close, talking in low tones. He recognized Jennison and his cousin. "Between us we ought to be able to keep this young woman entertained," Jennison had said. Well, John Quincy reflected, his portion of the entertainment promised to be small. CHAPTER V The Blood Of The Winterslips The Days that followed proved that he was right. He seldom had a moment alone with Barbara. When he did, Jennison seemed always to be hovering near by, and he did not long delay making the group a threesome. At first John Quincy resented this, but gradually he began to feel that it didn't matter. Nothing appeared to matter any more. A great calm had settled over the waters and over John Quincy's soul. The Pacific was one vast sheet of glass, growing a deeper blue with every passing hour. They seemed to be floating in space in a world where nothing ever happened, nothing could happen. Quiet restful days gave way to long brilliant nights. A little walk, a little talk, and that was life. Sometimes John Quincy chatted with Madame Maynard on the deck. She who had known the Islands so many years had fascinating tales to tell, tales of the monarchy and the missionaries. The boy liked her immensely, she was a New Englander at heart despite her glamourous lifetime in Hawaii. Bowker, too, he found excellent company. The steward was that rarity even among college graduates, an educated man; there was no topic upon which he could not discourse at length and brilliantly. In John Quincy's steamer trunk were a number of huge imposing volumes--books he had been meaning to tackle long ago, but it was Bowker who read them, not John Quincy. As the days slipped by, the blue of the water deepened to ultramarine, the air grew heavier and warmer. Underfoot throbbed the engines that were doing their best for Barbara and an early landing. The captain was optimistic, he predicted they would make port late Monday afternoon. But Sunday night a fierce sudden storm swept down upon them, and lashed the ship with a wet fury until dawn. When the captain appeared at luncheon Monday noon, worn by a night on the bridge, he shook his head. "We've lost our bet, Miss Barbara," he said. "I can't possibly arrive off Honolulu before midnight." Barbara frowned. "But ships sail at any hour," she reminded him. "I don't see why--if we sent radios ahead--" "No use," he told her. "The Quarantine people keep early hours. No, I'll have to lay by near the channel entrance until official sunrise--about six. We'll get in ahead of the Matsonia in the morning. That's the best I can offer you." "You're a dear, anyhow," Barbara smiled. "That old storm wasn't your fault. We'll drown our sorrow to-night with one last glorious dance--a costume party." She turned to Jennison. "I've got the loveliest fancy dress--Marie Antoinette--I wore it at college. What do you say, Harry?" "Fine!" Jennison answered. "We can all dig up some sort of costume. Let's go." Barbara hurried off to spread the news. After dinner that evening she appeared, a blonde vision straight from the French Court, avid for dancing. Jennison had rigged up an impromptu pirate dress, and was a striking figure. Most of the other passengers had donned weird outfits; on the Pacific boats a fancy dress party is warmly welcomed and amusingly carried out. John Quincy took small part in the gaiety, for he still suffered from New England inhibitions. At a little past eleven he drifted into the main saloon and found Madame Maynard seated there alone. "Hello," she said. "Come to keep me company. I've sworn not to go to bed until I see the light on Diamond Head." "I'm with you," John Quincy smiled. "But you ought to be dancing, boy. And you're not in costume." "No," admitted John Quincy. He paused, seeking an explanation. "A--a fellow can't make a fool of himself in front of a lot of strangers." "I understand," nodded the old lady. "It's a fine delicacy, too. But rather rare, particularly out this way." Barbara entered, flushed and vibrant. "Harry's gone to get me a drink," she panted. She sat down beside Mrs. Maynard. "I've been looking for you, my dear. You know, you haven't read my palm since I was a child. She's simply wonderful--" this to John Quincy. "Can tell you the most amazing things." Mrs. Maynard vehemently shook her head. "I don't read 'em any more," she said. "Gave it up. As I've grown older, I've come to understand how foolish it is to peer into the future. To-day--that's enough for me. That's all I care to think about." "Oh, please," the girl pouted. The old woman took Barbara's slim hand in hers, and studied the palm for a moment. John Quincy thought he saw a shadow cross her face. Again she shook her head. "Carpe diem," she said. "Which my nephew once translated as 'grab the day.' Dance and be happy to-night, and let's not try to look behind the curtain. It doesn't pay, my dear. Take an old woman's word for that." Harry Jennison appeared in the door. "Oh, here you are," he said. "I've got your drink waiting in the smoking-room." "I'm coming," the girl said, and went. The old woman stared after her. "Poor Barbara," she murmured. "Her mother's life was none too happy, either--" "You saw something in her hand--" John Quincy suggested. "No matter," the old lady snapped. "There's trouble waiting for us all, if we look far enough ahead. Now, let's go on deck. It's getting on toward midnight." She led him out to the starboard rail. A solitary light, like a star, gleamed in the distance. Land, land at last. "Diamond Head?" John Quincy asked. "No," she said. "That's the beacon on Makapuu Point. We shall have to round Koko Head before we sight Honolulu." She stood for a moment by the rail, one frail hand resting upon it. "But that's Oahu," she said gently. "That's home. A sweet land, boy. Too sweet, I often think. I hope you'll like it." "I'm sure I shall," replied John Quincy gallantly. "Let's sit down here." They found deck chairs. "Yes, a dear land," she went on. "But we're all sorts, in Hawaii--just as it is the whole world over--honest folks and rascals. From the four corners of the globe men come to us--often because they were no longer welcome at home. We offer them a paradise, and some repay us by becoming good citizens, while others rot away. I often think it will take a lot of stamina to make good in Heaven--and Hawaii is the same." The tall emaciated figure of the Reverend Mr. Upton appeared before them. He bowed. "Good evening, Madame. You're nearly home." "Yes," she said. "Glad of it, too." He turned to John Quincy. "You'll be seeing Dan Winterslip in the morning, young man." "I expect I shall," John Quincy replied. "Just ask him if he recalls that day on Apiang Island in the 'eighties. The Reverend Frank Upton." "Of course," replied John Quincy. "But you haven't told me much about it, you know." "No, I haven't." The missionary dropped into a chair. "I don't like to reveal any secrets about a man's past," he said. "However, I understand that the story of Dan Winterslip's early life has always been known in Honolulu." He glanced toward Madame Maynard. "Dan was no saint," she remarked. "We all know that." He crossed his thin legs. "As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of my meeting with Dan Winterslip," he went on. "I feel that in my humble way I persuaded him to change his course--for the better." "Humph," said the old lady. She was dubious, evidently. John Quincy was not altogether pleased at the turn the conversation had taken. He did not care to have the name of a Winterslip thus bandied about. But to his annoyance, the Reverend Mr. Upton was continuing. "It was in the 'eighties, as I told you," said the missionary. "I had a lonely station on Apiang, in the Gilbert group. One morning a brig anchored just beyond the reef, and a boat came ashore. Of course, I joined the procession of natives down to the beach to meet it. I saw few enough men of my own race. "There was a ruffianly crew aboard, in charge of a dapper, rather handsome young white man. And I saw, even before they beached her, midway in the boat, a long pine box. "The white man introduced himself. He said he was First Officer Winterslip, of the brig Maid of Shiloh. And when he mentioned the name of the ship, of course I knew at once. Knew her unsavory trade and history. He hurried on to say that their captain had died the day before, and they had brought him ashore to bury him on land. It had been the man's last wish. "Well." The Reverend Mr. Upton stared at the distant shore line of Oahu. "I looked over at that rough pine box--four Malay sailors were carrying it ashore. 'So Tom Brade's in there,' I said. Young Winterslip nodded. 'He's in there, right enough,' he answered. And I knew I was looking on at the final scene in the career of a famous character of the South Seas, a callous brute who knew no law, a pirate and adventurer, the master of the notorious Maid of Shiloh. Tom Brade, the blackbirder." "Blackbirder?" queried John Quincy. The missionary smiled. "Ah, yes--you come from Boston. A blackbirder, my boy, is a shipping-master who furnishes contract labor to the plantations at so much a head. It's pretty well wiped out now, but in the 'eighties! A horrible business--the curse of God was on it. Sometimes the laborers came willingly. Sometimes. But mostly they came at the point of a knife or the muzzle of a gun. A bloody, brutal business. "Winterslip and his men went up the beach and began to dig a grave under a cocoanut palm. I followed. I offered to say a prayer. Winterslip laughed--not much use, he said. But there on that bright morning under the palm I consigned to God the soul of a man who had so much to answer for. Winterslip agreed to come to my house for lunch. He told me that save for a recruiting agent who had remained aboard the brig, he was now the only white man on the ship. "During lunch, I talked to him. He was so young--I discovered this was his first trip. 'It's no trade for you,' I told him. And after a time, he agreed with me. He said he had two hundred blacks under the hatches that he must deliver to a plantation over in the Kingsmill group, and that after he'd done that, he was through. 'I'll take the Maid back to Sydney, Dominie,' he promised, 'and turn her over. Then I'm pau. I'm going home to Honolulu." The Reverend Mr. Upton rose slowly. "I learned later that he kept his word," he finished. "Yes, Dan Winterslip went home, and the South Seas saw him no more. I've always been a little proud of my part in that decision. I've had few rewards. It's not everywhere that the missionaries have prospered in a worldly way--as they did in Hawaii." He glanced at Madame Maynard. "But I've had satisfactions. And one of them arose from that meeting on the shore of Apiang. It's long past my bed hour--I must say good night." He moved away. John Quincy sat turning this horror over and over in his mind. A Winterslip in the blackbirding business! That was pretty. He wished he was back on Beacon Street. "Sweet little dig for me," the old lady was muttering indignantly. "That about the missionaries in Hawaii. And he needn't be so cocky. If Dan Winterslip dropped blackbirding, it was only because he'd found something more profitable, I fancy." She stood up suddenly. "At last," she said. John Quincy rose and stood beside her. Far away a faint yellow eye was winking. For a moment the old lady did not speak. "Well, that's that," she said finally, in a low voice. "I've seen Diamond Head again. Good night, my boy." "Good night," John Quincy answered. He stood alone by the rail. The pace of the PRESIDENT TYLER was slowing perceptibly. The moon came from behind a cloud, crept back again. A sort of unholy calm was settling over the hot, airless, deep blue world. The boy felt a strange restlessness in his heart. He ascended to the boat deck, seeking a breath of air. There, in a secluded spot, he came upon Barbara and Jennison--and stopped, shocked. His cousin was in the man's arms, and their bizarre costumes added a weird touch to the scene. They did not see John Quincy, for in their world at that moment there were only two. Their lips were crushed together, fiercely-- John Quincy fled. Good lord! He had kissed a girl or two himself, but it had been nothing like that. He went to the rail outside his stateroom. Well, what of it? Barbara was nothing to him; a cousin, yes, but one who seemed to belong to an alien race. He had sensed that she was in love with Jennison; this was no surprise. Why did he feel that frustrated pang deep in his heart? He was engaged to Agatha Parker. He gripped the rail, and sought to see again Agatha's aristocratic face. But it was blurred, indistinct. All Boston was blurred in his memory. The blood of the roaming Winterslips, the blood that led on to blackbirding and hot breathless kisses in the tropic night--was it flowing in his veins too? Oh, lord--he should have stayed at home where he belonged. Bowker, the steward, came along. "Well, here we are," he said. "We'll anchor in twelve fathoms and wait for the pilot and the doctor in the morning. I heard they'd been having Kona weather out this way, but I imagine this is the tail end of it. There'll be a moon shortly, and by dawn the old trades will be on the job again, God bless them." John Quincy did not speak. "I've returned all your books, sir," the steward went on, "except that one by Adams on Revolutionary New England. It's a mighty interesting work. I intend to finish it to-night, so I can give it to you before you go ashore." "Oh, that's all right," John Quincy said. He pointed to dim harbor lights in the distance. "Honolulu's over there, I take it." "Yeah--several miles away. A dead town, sir. They roll up the sidewalks at nine. And let me give you a tip. Keep away from the okolehau." "The what?" asked John Quincy. "The okolehau. A drink they sell out here." "What's it made of?" "There," said Bowker, "you have the plot for a big mystery story. What is it made of? Judging by the smell, of nothing very lovely. A few gulps, and you hit the ceiling of eternity. But oh, boy--when you drop! Keep off it, sir. I'm speaking as one who knows." "I'll keep off it," John Quincy promised. Bowker disappeared. John Quincy remained by the rail, that restless feeling growing momentarily. The moon was hidden still, the ship crept along through the muggy darkness. He peered across the black waters toward the strange land that awaited him. Somewhere over there, Dan Winterslip waited for him too. Dan Winterslip, blood relative of the Boston Winterslips, and ex-blackbirder. For the first time, the boy wished he had struck first in that dark attic in San Francisco, wished he had got that strong box and cast it overboard in the night. Who could say what new scandal, what fresh blot on the honored name of Winterslip, might have been averted had he been quicker with his fists? As John Quincy turned and entered his cabin, he made a firm resolution. He would linger but briefly at this, his journey's end. A few days to get his breath, perhaps, and then he would set out again for Boston. And Aunt Minerva would go with him, whether she wanted to or not. CHAPTER VI
