For a few minutes after finding the handkerchief at
his door, Alan experienced a feeling of mingled curiosity
and disappointment—also a certain resentment.
The suspicion that he was becoming involved in spite
of himself was not altogether pleasant. The evening,
up to a certain point, had been fairly entertaining.
It was true he might have passed a pleasanter hour
recalling old times with Stampede Smith, or discussing
Kadiak bears with the English earl, or striking up
an acquaintance with the unknown graybeard who had
voiced an opinion about John Graham. But he was
not regretting lost hours, nor was he holding Mary
Standish accountable for them. It was, last of
all, the handkerchief that momentarily upset him.
Why had she dropped it at his door? It was not
a dangerous-looking affair, to be sure, with its filmy
lace edging and ridiculous diminutiveness. As
the question came to him, he was wondering how even
as dainty a nose as that possessed by Mary Standish
could be much comforted by it. But it was pretty.
And, like Mary Standish, there was something exquisitely
quiet and perfect about it, like the simplicity of
her hair. He was not analyzing the matter.
It was a thought that came to him almost unconsciously,
as he tossed the annoying bit of fabric on the little
table at the head of his berth. Undoubtedly the
dropping of it had been entirely unpremeditated and
accidental. At least he told himself so.
And he also assured himself, with an involuntary shrug
of his shoulders, that any woman or girl had the right
to pass his door if she so desired, and that he was
an idiot for thinking otherwise. The argument
was only slightly adequate. But Alan was not interested
in mysteries, especially when they had to do with
woman—and such an absurdly inconsequential
thing as a handkerchief.
A second time he went to bed. He fell asleep
thinking about Keok and Nawadlook and the people of
his range. From somewhere he had been given the
priceless heritage of dreaming pleasantly, and Keok
was very real, with her swift smile and mischievous
face, and Nawadlook’s big, soft eyes were brighter
than when he had gone away. He saw Tautuk, gloomy
as usual over the heartlessness of Keok. He was
beating a tom-tom that gave out the peculiar sound
of bells, and to this Amuk Toolik was dancing the
Bear Dance, while Keok clapped her hands in exaggerated
admiration. Even in his dreams Alan chuckled.
He knew what was happening, and that out of the corners
of her laughing eyes Keok was enjoying Tautuk’s
jealousy. Tautuk was so stupid he would never
understand. That was the funny part of it.
And he beat his drum savagely, scowling so that he
almost shut his eyes, while Keok laughed outright.
It was then that Alan opened his eyes and heard the
last of the ship’s bells. It was still
dark. He turned on the light and looked at his
watch. Tautuk’s drum had tolled eight bells,
aboard the ship, and it was four o’clock in
the morning.
