She swallowed hard. “Now I’ll have what I want from you, wife. But it don't much matter—though he's a devilish shrewd fellow, and might have helped me out of a difficulty, had any occurred. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter.
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