Angel Island

He had hardly returned to the group of men when Chiquita swooped down

and seized the fan that he had dropped. The feathers were the exact

scarlet of her wings. She floated about, fanning herself slowly, her

teeth flashing white in her dusky face.

"By jiminy, if she only had a mantilla, she'd be a Spanish angel," Billy

commented whimsically.

The other girls dropped down after a while and seized a fan, or in

Clara's case two, and Peachy's three. They sailed off into the west,

fanning themselves slowly.

"Say, we've got to have our ammunition all ready the next time they

come," said Ralph. "I bet they're here this afternoon. They've never had

any of these lover-like little attentions, apparently. And they're

falling for them so quick that it's fairly embarrassing. Pete, you'll

have to be muckraking this island before we get through."

In their search for what Honey called "bait," they came across a trunk

filled with scarfs of various descriptions; gauze, satin, chiffon;

embroidered, sequined, fringed; every color, fabric, and decoration;

every shape and size. "Drummers' samples!" Honey commented.

"I tell you what we'll do now," Ralph suggested. "Put the first five

scarfs on the beach where they can get them. But if they want any more,

make them take them from our hands. Be careful, though, not to frighten

them. One move in their direction and we'll undo everything we've

accomplished."

As Ralph prophesied, the girls came again that day, but they waited

until after sunset. It was full-moon night, however; the island was as

white as day. They must have seen the gay-colored heaps from a distance;

they pounced on them at once. The air resounded with cooings of delight.

There was no doubt of it; the scarfs pleased them almost as much as the

mirrors. Before the first flush of their delight had passed, Honey ran

down the beach, bearing aloft a long, shimmering, white streamer. Ralph

followed with a scarf of black and gold. Billy, Pete, and Frank joined

them, each fluttering a brilliant silk gonfalon.

The girls drew away in alarm at first. Then they drew together for

counsel. All the time the men stood quiet, waving their delicately hued

spoils. One by one - Clara first, then Chiquita, Lulu, Peachy, Julia -

they succumbed; they sank slowly. Even then they floated for a long

while, visibly swinging between the desire for possession and the

instinct of caution. But in the end each one of them took from her mate

the scarf he held up to her. Followed the prettiest exhibition of flying

that Angel Island had yet seen. The girls fastened the long gauzes to

their heads and shoulders. They flicked and flitted and flittered, they

danced and pirouetted and spun through the air, trailing what in the

aqueous moonlight looked like mist, irradiated, star-sown.