The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. He was not particularly grateful for the present situation. One chance in a thousand, and that would be the girl. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. The two hostlers, however, kept close at his heels; and Jack, whose strength began to flag, feared he could not hold much longer. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. Only I wish—I wish to-day I was a thousand times, ten thousand times more beautiful. Do you promise to do this?" "Solemnly," rejoined the carpenter.
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