Daughter of the Sun | Page 9

think I might be slittin' throats for them? Don't be an ass,
Headlong; I'm sober."

"Where away, then, in such a hurry?" demanded Kendric, still aware of
something amiss in Barlow's bearing.
"About my business," retorted the sailor. "And suppose you mind
yours?"
Kendric shrugged and went back to his friends. But at the door he
turned and saw Barlow hastening along the dim street in the wake of
the disappearing forms of Ruiz Rios and the woman.
Inside there were some few who sought to console Kendric, thinking
that to any man the loss of ten thousand dollars must be a considerable
blow. His answer was a clap on the back and a laughing demand to
know what they were driving at and what they took him for, anyway?
Those who knew him best squandered no sympathy where they knew
none was needed. To the discerning, though they had never known
another man who won or lost with equal gusto in the game, who when
he met fortune or misfortune "treated those two impostors just the
same," Jim Kendric was exactly what he appeared to be, a
devil-may-care sort of fellow who had infinite faith in his tomorrow
and who had never learned to love money.
Kendric was relieved when, half an hour later, Twisty Barlow came
back. Kendric's mood was boisterous from the sheer joy of being
among friends and once more as good as on home soil. He went up and
down among them with his pockets turned wrong-side out and hanging
eloquently, swapping yarns, inviting recitals of wild doings, making a
man here and there join him in one of the old songs, singing mightily
himself. He had just given a brief sketch of the manner in which he had
acquired his latest stake; how down in Mexico he had done business
with a man whom he did not trust. Hence Kendric had insisted on
having the whole thing in good old U. S. money and then had ridden
like the devil beating tan bark to keep ahead of the half-dozen ragged
cut-throats who, he was sure, had been started on his trail.
"And now that I'm rid of it," he said, "I can get a good night's sleep!
Who wants to be a millionaire anyway?"

He saw that though Barlow had once more command of his features,
there was still a feverish gleam in his eyes. And, further, that with
rising impatience Barlow was waiting for him.
"Come alive, Twisty, old mate," Kendric called to him. "Limber up and
give us a good old deep-sea chantey!"
Twisty stood where he was, eyeing him curiously.
"I want to talk to you, Jim," he said. His voice like his look told of
excitement repressed.
"It's early," retorted Kendric, "and talk will keep. A night like this was
meant for other things than for two old fools like you and me to sit in a
corner with long faces. Strike up the chantey."
"You're busted," said Barlow sharply; "You've had your fling and
you've shot your wad. Come along with me. You know what shore I'm
headin' to. You know I've got my hooks in that old tub down to San
Diego-----"
"There's a craft in San Diego,"
improvised Kendric lightly.
"With no cargo in her hold, And old Twisty Barlow's leased her For to
fill her up with Gold. And he'd go a buccaneerin', privateerin', wildly
steerin' For the beaches where the sun shines on whole banks of blazin'
pearls----"
But his rhythm was getting away from him and his rhymes petered out
and he stopped, laughing while around him men clamored for more.
"Oh, there'll be a tale to tell when Twisty sails back," he conceded.
"But until he's under way there's no tale to tell and so what's the use of
talk? A song's better; walk her up, Twisty, old mate."
Barlow's impatience flared out into irritation.

"What's the sense of this monkey business?" he demanded. "I'm off to
San Diego by moon-rise. If you ain't with me, you ain't. Just say so,
can't you?"
"A song first, Twisty?" countered Kendric.
"Will you come listen to me then?" asked Barlow. "Word of honor?"
It was plain that he was in dead earnest and Kendric cried, "Yes," quite
heartily. Then Barlow, putting up with Kendric's mood since there was
no other way that one might do for a wilful, spoiled child over which
he had no authority of the rod, allowed himself to be dragged to the
middle of the room and there, standing side by side, the two men lifted
their voices to the swing and pulse of "The Flying Fish Catcher,"
through all but interminable verses, while the men about them kept
enthusiastic time by tramping heavily with their thick boots. At the end
Kendric put his