"
"Oh, I suppose you mean that for us," demanded Keating. "That's a
slap at me, eh?"
Channing gave a sigh and threw himself back against the trunk of the
palm, with his hands clasped behind his head.
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of you at all, Keating," he said. "I don't
consider you in the least." He stretched himself and yawned wearily.
"I've got troubles of my own." He sat up suddenly and adjusted the
objectionable hat to his head.
"Why don't you wire the C. P.," he asked, briskly, "and see if they
don't want an extra man? It won't cost you anything to wire, and I
need the job, and I haven't the money to cable."
"The Consolidated Press," began Keating, jealously. "Why--well, you
know what the Consolidated Press is? They don't want descriptive
writers--and I've got all the men I need."
Keating rose and stood hesitating in some embarrassment. "I'll tell
you what I could do, Channing," he said, "I could take you on as a
stoker, or steward, say. They're always deserting and mutinying; I
have to carry a gun on me to make them mind. How would you like that?
Forty dollars a month, and eat with the crew?"
For a moment Channing stood in silence, smoothing the sand with the
sole of his shoe.
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