The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. CHAPTER XXI. She pulled, he rose to his feet. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. "Ah!" she screamed, seeing the uplifted weapon in Sheppard's hand, "don't hurt Thames—don't, dear Jack! If you want to kill somebody, kill me, not him. "Not dangerously, I hope," returned Thames; "but fly—save yourself. "See how glad he is!" His irony and displeasure subsided. To preach a fine sermon every Sunday so that he would lose neither the art nor the impulse; and this child, in secret rebellion, taking it down in long hand during odd hours in the week! Preaching grandiloquently before a few score natives who understood little beyond the gestures, for the single purpose of warding off disintegration! It reminded the doctor of a stubborn retreat; from barricade to barricade, grimly fighting to keep the enemy at bay, that insidious enemy of the white man in the South Seas—inertia. Yet I shall think of you to-day.
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