"Speaking of babies," said Derek, "I must put that little fellow to bed."
He carried the child to his bedroom and laid him snugly in the old four-poster. He buried his face for a moment against the little neck, inhaling the delicious sweetness of the warm, tender flesh. Then he drew the covers close, lowered the light, and returned to Newbigging.
He was sitting with his fair head thrown back against the high back of the chair, his blue sailor's eyes fixed unwinkingly on the light.
"I've been thinking o' some of my adventures in China," he said, solemnly. "I'd like tae tell ye aboot them, sir, if ye'll listen."
Derek asquiesced and sat down again. It was plain that Newbigging had drunk a good deal. He launched into stories of his doings in the East, which Derek did not believe but which he found very entertaining, for the Scot had a vigourous flow of words, and his changeful face was a pleasure to watch. Derek had not drunk to excess since those summer nights when he had gambled with his Indian relations at the shack. But now in the warmth of Newbigging's presence (he had not known how lonely he was) he grew once more indiscreet.
They exchanged reminiscences of boyhood. Newbigging told of fights in Scotland—even to his first real fight when as he lay on his opponent panting, the other urchins crowded close, yelling, "Mak' him greet, Jimmie, mak' him greet!" and, man, he had made him greet!
At last Derek told Newbigging of how, when a small boy in Nova Scotia, he had squeezed his body between the horizontal bars of an old farmer's orchard gate, and had filled his blouse with ripe red apples. The farmer had given chase. Derek had had a good start but when he had attempted to get through the gate, the bulk of the apples
