"Down in a rice field in Manoa Valley."
The girl peered downward as if trying to verify the statement. Then she looked back at the clinging figure in the hectic pajamas and the corners of her mouth began to quiver and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. "How long have you been there?" she asked, less combatively.
"It seems like centuries," he said, "but it is probably only about an hour, I suppose. Also, both of my feet are asleep and I have numerous and sundry abrasions, and more cramps than there are places to put them."
The girl turned away, still biting her lip. "I'll call Fong," she said with dignity.
"I'd much rather you wouldn't," said Dick appealingly. "Fong and I don't seem to harmonize so's you could notice; and if I were to see the gloating enjoyment which would enliven his face, I should probably let go and drop into Manoa and oblivion—and I hate to."
The girl turned back, and now she was laughing openly. "Wait a minute," she said, "Perhaps I can help you." Returning to her corner she slipped into the gay kimono and then came forward dragging a canvas steamer chair. This she folded into stretcher shape, and coming as near to the edge of the roof as she dared, she insinuated the end of it between the swaying branches; and Dick, hugging the trunk with one arm, reached out the other hand
