doubtless preached conciliation, but the majority preferred their bath. The God who Looks after Small Things had caused the visitor that day to receive two weeks' delayed mails in one from a casual postman, and the whole heavy bundle of newspapers, tied with a strap, he dangled as bait. At the edge of the beach, cross-legged, undressed to his sky-blue army shirt, sat a lean, ginger-haired man, on guard over a dozen heaps of clothing. His eyes followed the incoming Atlantic boat.
ʻExcuse me, Mister,’ he said, without turning (and the speech betrayed his nationality), ʻwould you mind keeping away from these garments? I've been elected janitor—on the Dutch vote.’
The visitor moved over against the barbed-wire fence and sat down to his mail. At the rustle of the newspaper-wrappers the ginger-coloured man turned quickly, the hunger of a press-ridden people in his close-set iron-grey eyes.
ʻHave you any use for papers?’ said the visitor.
ʻHave I any use?’ A quick, curved forefinger was already snicking off the outer covers. 'Why, that's the New York postmark! Give me the ads. at the back of Harper's and M'Clure's and I'm in touch with God's Country again! Did you know how I was aching for papers?'
The visitor told the tale of the casual postman.
ʻProvidential!’ said the ginger-coloured man, keen as a terrier on his task; 'both in time and matter. Yes!. . . The Scientific American yet once more! Oh, it's good! it's good!' His voice broke as he pressed his hawk-like nose
