He put the list away, muttering once more, "Oh, no, my boy, you don't. Not if I know it." He did not mean the blinking, eavesdropping humbug to force his action. He took his head again into his hands; his im-mobility confined in the darkness of this shut-up little place seemed to make him a thing apart infinitely re-moved from the stir and the sounds of the deck.
He heard them: the passengers were beginning to jabber excitedly; somebody dragged a heavy box past his door. He heard Captain Whalley's voice above--"Stations, Mr. Sterne." And the answer from some-where on deck forward--"Ay, ay, sir."
"We shall moor head up stream this time; the ebb has made."
"Head up stream, sir."
"You will see to it, Mr. Sterne."
The answer was covered by the autocratic clang on the engine-room gong. The propeller went on beating slowly: one, two, three; one, two, three--with pauses as if hesitating on the turn. The gong clanged time after time, and the water churned this way and that by the blades was making a great noisy commotion alongside.
Mr. Massy did not move. A shore-light on the other bank, a quarter of a mile across the river, drifted, no bigger than a tiny star, passing slowly athwart the cir-cle of the port. Voices from Mr. Van Wyk's jetty an-swered the hails from the ship; ropes were thrown and missed and thrown again; the swaying flame of a torch carried in a large sampan coming to fetch away in state the Rajah from down the coast cast a sudden ruddy glare into his cabin, over his very person. Mr. Massy did not move. After a few last ponderous turns the engines stopped, and the prolonged clanging of the gong signified that the captain had done with them. A great number of boats and canoes of all sizes boarded the off-side of the Sofala. Then after a time the tumult of splashing, of cries, of shuffling feet, of packages dropped with a thump, the noise of the native passen-gers going away, subsided slowly. On the shore, a voice, cultivated, slightly authoritative, spoke very close alongside--"Brought any mail for me this time?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Wyk." This was from Sterne, an-swering over the rail in a tone of respectful cordiality.
"Shall I bring it up to you?"
But the voice asked again--"Where's the captain?"
"Still on the bridge, I believe. He hasn't left his chair. Shall I . . ."
The voice interrupted negligently.
"I will come on board."
"Mr. Van Wyk," Sterne suddenly broke out with an eager effort, "will you do me the favor . . ."
The mate walked away quickly towards the gangway.
A silence fell. Mr. Massy in the dark did not move.
He did not move even when he heard slow shuffling footsteps pass his cabin lazily. He contented himself to bellow out through the closed door--"You--Jack!"
The footsteps came back without haste; the door handle rattled, and the second engineer appeared in the opening, shadowy in the sheen of the skylight at his back, with his face apparently as black as the rest of his figure.
"We have been very long coming up this time," Mr. Massy growled, without changing his attitude.
"What do you expect with half the boiler tubes plugged up for leaks." The second defended himself loquaciously.
"None of your lip," said Massy.
"None of your rotten boilers--I say," retorted his faithful subordinate without animation, huskily. "Go down there and carry a head of steam on them yourself--if you dare. I don't."
"You aren't worth your salt then," Massy said. The other made a faint noise which resembled a laugh but might have been a snarl.
"Better go slow than stop the ship altogether," he admonished his admired superior. Mr. Massy moved at last. He turned in his chair, and grinding his teeth--"Dam' you and the ship! I wish she were at the bottom of the sea. Then you would have to starve."
The trusty second engineer closed the door gently.
Massy listened. Instead of passing on to the bath-room where he should have gone to clean himself, the second entered his cabin, which was next door. Mr. Massy jumped up and waited. Suddenly he heard the lock snap in there. He rushed out and gave a violent kick to the door.
"I believe you are locking yourself up to get drunk," he shouted.
A muffled answer came after a while.
"My own time."
"If you take to boozing on the trip I'll fire you out,"
Massy cried.
An obstinate silence followed that threat. Massy moved away perplexed. On the bank two figures ap-peared, approaching the gangway. He heard a voice tinged with contempt--"I would rather doubt your word. But I shall cer-tainly speak to him of this."
The other voice, Sterne's, said with a sort of regretful formality--"Thanks. That's all I want. I must do my duty."
Mr. Massy was surprised. A short, dapper figure leaped lightly on the deck and nearly bounded into him where he stood beyond the circle of light from the gang-way lamp. When it had passed towards the bridge, after exchanging a hurried "Good evening," Massy said surlily to Sterne who followed with slow steps--"What is it you're making up to Mr. Van Wyk for, now?"
"Far from it, Mr. Massy. I am not good enough for Mr. Van Wyk. Neither are you, sir, in his opinion, I am afraid. Captain Whalley is, it seems. He's gone to ask him to dine up at the house this evening."
Then he murmured to himself darkly--"I hope he will like it."
