He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Then, if you weren’t looking, he’d get five feet closer. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. In between naps she increasingly found herself gazing at him, his large nose, his eyes circled in silvery plum shadows, his thin lips parted as he slept baring a rim of perfect teeth. She led him up the long hall solemnly. ” He said. ” “You have it,” he declared confidently. ‘Yes, but I’m probably chasing moonbeams. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She deserves what has befallen her.
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