J. Archibald McKackney
trade winds will evoke vibratory harmonies by night and day.
I am not a coward, and my adventures in pursuit of rare whiskers have led me into some tight corners among various kinds of uncivilized folk. But I am ready to confess that I was in an agitated state of mind and that my knees wobbled when the surf boat from my chartered schooner grounded on this remote beach in the gray dawn, and Hank Wilkins and I were left alone to face these mysterious islanders. I could not help recalling the fate of the red-bearded impostor from Maaloo Island. And what disturbed me even more was the fact that I was clean shaven, and might be thrust against my will into some such degrading kind of labor and humiliating social status as had crushed the unfortunate Shipwrecked Parent. If Wilkins failed to win by virtue of his Titian beard—well, our lives and fortunes hung by a hair, or, to be more accurate, by a rarely splendid bunch of them.
Leaving me alone on the beach, Hank Wilkins advanced toward a stately grove of palms,
