the sun had set. and when, after drilling a deep hole with his stick, he moved from that spot the night had massed its army of shadows under the trees. they filled the eastern ends of the avenues as if only waiting the signal for a general advance upon the open spaces of the world; they were gathering low between the deep stone-faced banks of the canal. the malay prau, half-concealed under the arch of the bridge, had not altered its position a quarter of an inch. for a long time captain whalley stared down over the parapet, till at last the floating immobility of that beshrouded thing seemed to grow upon him into something inexplicable and alarming. the twilight abandoned the zenith; its reflected gleams left the world below, and the water of the canal seemed to turn into pitch. captain whalley crossed it.
the turning to the right, which was his way to his hotel, was only a very few steps farther. he stopped again (all the houses of the sea-front were shut up, the quayside was deserted, but for one or two figures of natives walking in the distance) and began to reckon the amount of his bill. so many days in the hotel at so many dollars a day. to count the days he used his fingers: plunging one hand into his pocket, he jingled a few silver coins. all right for three days more; and then, unless something turned up, he must break into the five hundred — ivy’s money — invested in her father. it seemed to him that the first meal coming out of that reserve would choke him — for certain. reason was of no use. it was a matter of feeling. his feelings had never played him false.
he did not turn to the right. he walked on, as if there still had been a ship in the roadstead to which he could get himself pulled off in the evening. far away, beyond the houses, on the slope of an indigo promontory closing the view of the quays, the slim column of a factory-chimney smoked quietly straight up into the clear air. a chinaman, curled down in the stern of one of the half-dozen sampans floating off the end of the jetty, caught sight of a beckoning hand. he jumped up, rolled his pigtail round his head swiftly, tucked in two rapid movements his wide dark trousers high up his yellow thighs, and by a single, noiseless, finlike stir of the oars, sheered the sampan alongside the steps with the ease and precision of a swimming fish.
“sofala,” articulated captain whalley from above; and the chinaman, a new emigrant probably, stared upwards with a tense attention as if waiting to see the queer word fall visibly from the white man’s lips. “sofala,” captain whalley repeated; and suddenly his heart failed him. he paused. the shores, the islets, the high ground, the low points, were dark: the horizon had grown somber; and across the eastern sweep of the shore the white obelisk, marking the landing-place of the telegraph-cable, stood like a pale ghost on the beach before the dark spread of uneven roofs, intermingled with palms, of the native town. captain whalley began again.
“sofala. savee so-fa-la, john?”
this time the chinaman made out that bizarre sound, and grunted his assent uncouthly, low down in his bare throat. with the first yellow twinkle of a star that appeared like the head of a pin stabbed deep into the smooth, pale, shimmering fabric of the sky, the edge of a keen chill seemed to cleave through the warm air of the earth. at the moment of stepping into the sampan to go and try for the command of the sofala captain whalley shivered a little.
when on his return he landed on the quay again venus, like a choice jewel set low on the hem of the sky, cast a faint gold trail behind him upon the roadstead, as level as a floor made of one dark and polished stone. the lofty vaults of the avenues were black — all black overhead — and the porcelain globes on the lamp-posts resembled egg-shaped pearls, gigantic and luminous, displayed in a row whose farther end seemed to sink in the distance, down to the level of his knees. he put his hands behind his back. he would now consider calmly the discretion of it before saying the final word to-morrow. his feet scrunched the gravel loudly — the discretion of it. it would have been easier to appraise had there been a workable alternative. the honesty of it was indubitable: he meant well by the fellow; and periodically his shadow leaped up intense by his side on the trunks of the trees, to lengthen itself, oblique and dim, far over the grass — repeating his stride.
the discretion of it. was there a choice? he seemed already to have lost something of himself; to have given up to a hungry specter something of his truth and dignity in order to live. but his life was necessary. let poverty do its worst in exacting its toll of humiliation. it was certain that ned eliott had rendered him, without knowing it, a service for which it would have been impossible to ask. he hoped ned would not think there had been something underhand in his action. he supposed that now when he heard of it he would understand — or perhaps he would only think whalley an eccentric old fool. what would have been the good of telling him — any more than of blurting the whole tale to that man massy? five hundred pounds ready to invest. let him make the best of that. let him wonder. you want a captain — i want a ship. that’s enough. b-r-r-r-r. what a disagreeable impression that empty, dark, echoing steamer had made upon him . . . .
a laid-up steamer was a dead thing and no mistake; a sailing-ship somehow seems always ready to spring into life with the breath of the incorruptible heaven; but a teamer, thought captain whalley, with her fires out, without the warm whiffs from below meeting you on her decks, without the hiss of steam, the clangs of iron in her breast — lies there as cold and still and pulseless as a corpse.
in the solitude of the avenue, all black above and lighted below, captain whalley, considering the discretion of his course, met, as it were incidentally, the thought of death. he pushed it aside with dislike and contempt. he almost laughed at it; and in the unquenchable vitality of his age only thought with a kind of exultation how little he needed to keep body and soul together. not a bad investment for the poor woman this solid carcass of her father. and for the rest — in case of anything — the agreement should be clear: the whole five hundred to be paid back to her integrally within three months. integrally. every penny. he was not to lose any of her money whatever else had to go — a little dignity — some of his self-respect. he had never before allowed anybody to remain under any sort of false impression as to himself. well, let that go — for her sake. after all, he had never said anything misleading — and captain whalley felt himself corrupt to the marrow of his bones. he laughed a little with the intimate scorn of his worldly prudence. clearly, with a fellow of that sort, and in the peculiar relation they were to stand to each other, it would not have done to blurt out everything. he did not like the fellow. he did not like his spells of fawning loquacity and bursts of resentfulness. in the end — a poor devil. he would not have liked to stand in his shoes. men were not evil, after all. he did not like his sleek hair, his queer way of standing at right angles, with his nose in the air, and glancing along his shoulder at you. no. on the whole, men were not bad — they were only silly or unhappy.
captain whalley had finished considering the discretion of that step — and there was the whole long night before him. in the full light his long beard would glisten like a silver breastplate covering his heart; in the spaces between the lamps his burly figure passed less distinct, loomed very big, wandering, and mysterious. no; there was not much real harm in men: and all the time a shadow marched with him, slanting on his left hand — which in the east is a presage of evil.
. . . . . . .
“can you make out the clump of palms yet, serang?” asked captain whalley from his chair on the bridge of the sofala approaching the bar of batu beru.
“no, tuan. by-and-by see.” the old malay, in a blue dungaree suit, planted on his bony dark feet under the bridge awning, put his hands behind his back and stared ahead out of the innumerable wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
captain whalley sat still, without lifting his head to look for himself. three years — thirty-six times. he had made these palms thirty-six times from the southward. they would come into view at the proper time. thank god, the old ship made her courses and distances trip after trip, as correct as clockwork. at last he murmured again —
“in sight yet?”
“the sun makes a very great glare, tuan.”
“watch well, serang.”
“ya, tuan.”
a white man had ascended the ladder from the deck noiselessly, and had listened quietly to this short colloquy. then he stepped out on the bridge and began to walk from end to end, holding up the long cherry-wood stem of a pipe. his black hair lay plastered in long lanky wisps across the bald summit of his head; he had a furrowed brow, a yellow complexion, and a thick shapeless nose. a scanty growth of whisker did not conceal the contour of his jaw. his aspect was of brooding care; and sucking at a curved black mouth-piece, he presented such a heavy overhanging profile that even the serang could not help reflecting sometimes upon the extreme unloveliness of some white men.
captain whalley seemed to brace himself up in his chair, but gave no recognition whatever to his presence. the other puffed jets of smoke; then suddenly —
“i could never understand that new mania of yours of having this malay here for your shadow, partner.”
captain whalley got up from the chair in all his imposing stature and walked across to the binnacle, holding such an unswerving course that the other had to back away hurriedly, and remained as if intimidated, with the pipe trembling in his hand. “walk over me now,” he muttered in a sort of astounded and discomfited whisper. then slowly and distinctly he said —
“i— am — not — dirt.” and then added defiantly, “as you seem to think.”
the serang jerked out —
“see the palms now, tuan.”
captain whalley strode forward to the rail; but his eyes, instead of going straight to the point, with the assured keen glance of a sailor, wandered irresolutely in space, as though he, the discoverer of new routes, had lost his way upon this narrow sea.
another white man, the mate, came up on the bridge. he was tall, young, lean, with a mustache like a trooper, and something malicious in the eye. he took up a position beside the engineer. captain whalley, with his back to them, inquired —
“what’s on the log?”
“eighty-five,” answered the mate quickly, and nudged the engineer with his elbow.
captain whalley’s muscular hands squeezed the iron rail with an extraordinary force; his eyes glared with an enormous effort; he knitted his eyebrows, the perspiration fell from under his hat,— and in a faint voice he murmured, “steady her, serang — when she is on the proper bearing.”
the silent malay stepped back, waited a little, and lifted his arm warningly to the helmsman. the wheel revolved rapidly to meet the swing of the ship. again the made nudged the engineer. but massy turned upon him.
“mr. sterne,” he said violently, “let me tell you — as a shipowner — that you are no better than a confounded fool.”
