He saluted awkwardly. “Act three. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “Mary!” He whispered loudly. “Please don’t be sad. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. “He wants to settle something on you, I believe. I don't believe his name is Taber. He drew both his pistols, and prepared for a desperate encounter.
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