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Oyen, Henry, 1883-1921

"The Plunderer"


"It must sound terribly silly to you," she said quietly. "I wonder if
the Florida moon affects every one that way."
"You said it wasn't the moon."
"No," she said seriously, "it isn't." She paused, stroking the pony's
neck thoughtfully. "Do you know, I actually was so frightened at
nothing that I ran away this evening."
"You were going over there?" He pointed toward the vague lights
showing through the tents of his camp.
"Why--yes. It isn't the most thickly populated part of the world about
here, isn't it? White people aren't so plentiful here. At least I
knew there were white men at those tents--that funny red-haired man and
yourself. You see it was the only place about here where I knew I
could find anybody who--what shall I say? Why, who doesn't belong in
this weird atmosphere----It was uncanny over at our place this evening.
At sunset the water in the swimming pool didn't seem to be water at
all; it seemed molten gold; and the mosaic round it seemed to be made
up of whitened bones, and back of that was the fringe of palms hiding
the jungle. It suddenly seemed to me that the palms were there for
that purpose, and that the jungle needed to be hidden; and the palms
seemed to know it, for their fronds hung drooping, like the hands of
weary, worn-out women, tired of concealing whatever it is that's Back
There--in the jungle--on Palm Island.


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