Gordon Young

“ The natives ran a boat off the sand and shot alongside the steps. McGuire helped her into it, making sure that she had every twig that bore a precious blossom. Her little fingers were not too weary to be greedy for all the floral loot.
Corydon, of course, almost fell into the water getting seated. His feet and hands were always in his way. He tried to tell McGuire what a splendid day they had spent.
Eve, somehow, as women can, put nearly all that she felt into a simple good-by. She waved at him in the darkness. ”

“ He had never heard of beach-combers, the outcasts from even tropic tolerance, who live—that is about all that can be said. By some satanic miracle, they live and do not die off.
Day after day Corydon came ashore, looking for and finding him. McGuire was puzzled at first, then liked the boy—he was so blazingly innocent and incurious. He did not drink—or anything. He did not want to see a hulahula. He wanted to see landmarks and have McGuire tell their legends. McGuire could imagine legends as fast as he could talk—good lively ones. ”

“ McGuire, after expressing his unconvincing opinion of her daughters, nieces, and all the youthful maiden connection she had, spoke of his friends.
The baby waddled importantly across to the mat, wedged between the girls and, advancing into the midst of the circle, collapsed and regarded Eve with dignified appraisement. She reached out coaxingly. But it was beneath him to yield to the arms of a strange woman.
McGuire was saying: “—from a great cold country where people freeze in the cradle. Never get warm, some of 'em, till they die—then they roast.” ”