Beam and Joe Bowling, old Yeo and the skipper himself. Shovels swung, picks described their arcs, backs curved and rose, rivulets of sweat dripped from sun-coppered faces, or glistened on the swift-playing muscles. Shining clouds of sand whirled through the air, and gaping holes yawned around the sentinel palm.
The sun curved through segment after segment of the zodiac, a canopy of luminous turquoise, but no gold except his own, stained or stainless, gleamed on their expectant—or doubting eyes.
At noon they paused for a spell, but after luncheon and a leisurely pulling on well-seasoned pipes, they struck again.
By now the keen edge of the holiday spirit had been dulled a trifle, but with the persistence of stout men of the open, who always like to see through a hard job once begun, their backs rose and fell in that slow swing of the digger which always seems to the idle onlooker too leisurely, but which, as the experienced hand knows, sets the only pace that can finish a hard stint with the spade.
Sally herself had tried to help as often as she was permitted. She paid for it. With her tendency to darkness, the backs of her hands always resembled the palest of the tea-roses around her home. And in spite of her activity, the palms had always kept the satin-soft finish of the moss-roses near by. But now, angry red welts and yellowish blisters discoloured them. Still, she kept at it until ordered to stop, then, with a cajolery which this quiet little maiden could use very cleverly, she soothed Spanish Dick's fears and per-
