You'll find a lot that do."
Here and there earnest groups gathered round ministers of the Dutch
Reformed Church, who doubtless preached conciliation, but the majority
preferred their bath. The God who Looks after Small Things had caused the
visitor that day to receive two weeks' delayed mails in one from a casual
postman, and the whole heavy bundle of newspapers, tied with a strap, he
dangled as bait. At the edge of the beach, cross-legged, undressed to his
sky-blue army shirt, sat a lean, ginger-haired man, on guard over a dozen
heaps of clothing. His eyes followed the incoming Atlantic boat.
"Excuse me, Mister," he said, without turning (and the speech betrayed his
nationality), "would you mind keeping away from these garments? I've been
elected janitor--on the Dutch vote."
The visitor moved over against the barbed-wire fence and sat down to his
mail. At the rustle of the newspaper-wrappers the ginger-coloured man
turned quickly, the hunger of a press-ridden people in his close-set iron-
grey eyes.
"Have you any use for papers?" said the visitor.
"Have I any use?" A quick, curved forefinger was already snicking off the
outer covers. "Why, that's the New York postmark! Give me the ads. at the
back of _Harper's_ and _M'Clure's_ and I'm in touch with God's Country
again! Did you know how I was aching for papers?"
The visitor told the tale of the casual postman.
"Providential!" said the ginger-coloured man, keen as a terrier on his
task; "both in time and matter.
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