of it, that riveted my notice. The foreground was of sand and scrub and

wreckwood; in the middle distance the many-hued and smooth expanse of a

lagoon, enclosed by a wall of breakers; beyond, a blue strip of ocean.

The sky was cloudless, and I could hear the surf break. For the place

was Midway Island; the point of view the very spot at which I had landed

with the captain for the first time, and from which I had re-embarked

the day before we sailed. I had already been gazing for some seconds,

before my attention was arrested by a blur on the sea-line; and stooping

to look, I recognised the smoke of a steamer.

"Yes," said I, turning toward Stennis, "it has merit. What is it?"

"A fancy piece," he returned. "That's what pleased me. So few of the

fellows in our time had the imagination of a garden snail."

"Madden, you say his name is?" I pursued.

"Madden," he repeated.

"Has he travelled much?" I inquired.

"I haven't an idea. He is one of the least autobiographical of men. He

sits, and smokes, and giggles, and sometimes he makes small jests;

but his contributions to the art of pleasing are generally confined to

looking like a gentleman and being one. No," added Stennis, "he'll never

suit you, Dodd; you like more head on your liquor. You'll find him as

dull as ditch water."

"Has he big blonde side-whiskers like tusks?" I asked, mindful of the

photograph of Goddedaal.

"Certainly not: why should he?" was the reply.

"Does he write many letters?" I continued.

"God knows," said Stennis. "What is wrong with you? I never saw you

taken this way before."

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