By this time, Jack's reputation had risen to such a height with the populace,—his exploits having become the universal theme of discourse, that the streets were almost impassable for the crowds collected to obtain a view of him. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. "Gad! it's a devilish fine face when lit up.
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