falling on the slight swell, and the metallic strains of a phonograph jarred the stillness of the tropical night. Listening carefully, the pair could distinguish a throaty soprano and a mediocre baritone, in a ragtime song as choppy as the waves of Dead Man's Channel.
"Um ti dee, deedle dee
Um ti dee, deedle dee
Oh play it again
That shivery refrain
Um ti dee, deedle dee—"
"It sounds like a frightful discord in this lovely, peaceful place—as much of a discord as—as—" Sally wildly searched for a home-made simile—"a piece of red flannel on a crepe-de-chine dress."
"It has about the same itch," said Ben. Homely humour—but they both laughed joyously anyway. Then he remarked, a little sternly:
"If that's Phil—I've been looking for him."
Her hand closed over his.
"Now, dear, don't. You can afford to forgive."
Over and over, the silly, and cheap, but maddening melody tantalized the listeners—"um ti dee, deedle, dee—um ti dee, deedle dee—" Now they were dancing to it—the man's figure and the girl's, still clad in the gay costume which even in the night gleamed colourfully as she swayed within the circle of the bright lantern. Aft, four figures were bending over some objects. A game of cards. The music at last
