most indescribable topper that ever...”      

       “You were going to tell me about Scrymgeour,” said Sally.     

       The young man blinked as if he had collided with some hard object while sleep-walking. Eloquence had carried him away.     

       “Scrymgeour?” he said. “Oh, that would bore you.”      

       “Don't be silly,” said Sally reprovingly. “Can't you realize that we're practically castaways on a desert island? There's nothing to do till to-morrow but talk about ourselves. I want to hear all about you, and then I'll tell you all about myself. If you feel diffident about starting the revelations, I'll begin. Better start with names. Mine is Sally Nicholas. What's yours?”      

       “Mine? Oh, ah, yes, I see what you mean.”      

       “I thought you would. I put it as clearly as I could. Well, what is it?”      

       “Kemp.”      

       “And the first name?”      

       “Well, as a matter of fact,” said the young man, “I've always rather hushed up my first name, because when I was christened they worked a low-down trick on me!”      

       “You can't shock me,” said Sally, encouragingly. “My father's name was Ezekiel, and I've a brother who was christened Fillmore.”      

       Mr. Kemp brightened. “Well, mine isn't as bad as that... No, I don't mean that,” he broke off apologetically. “Both awfully jolly names, of course...”      

       “Get on,” said Sally.     

       “Well, they called me Lancelot. And, of course, the thing is that I don't look like a Lancelot and never shall. My pals,” he added in a more cheerful strain, “call me Ginger.”      

       “I don't blame them,” said Sally.     

       “Perhaps you wouldn't mind thinking of me as Ginger?'' suggested the young man diffidently.     

       “Certainly.”      

       “That's awfully good of you.”      

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