the side of the bed stock still. For half an hour perhaps Walker lay with his eyes closed, then he opened them.
'They'll give you my job,' he said, slowly. 'Last time I was in Apia I told them you were all right. Finish my road. I want to think that'll be done. All round the island.'
'I don't want your job. You'll get all right.'
Walker shook his head wearily.
'I've had my day. Treat them fairly, that's the great thing. They're children. You must always remember that. You must be firm with them, but you must be kind. And you must be just. I've never made a bob out of them. I haven't saved a hundred pounds in twenty years. The road's the great thing. Get the road finished.'
Something very like a sob was wrung from Mackintosh.
'You're a good fellow, Mac. I always liked you.'
He closed his eyes, and Mackintosh thought that he would never open them again. His mouth was so dry that he had to get himself something to drink. The Chinese cook silently put a chair for him. He sat down by the side of the bed and waited. He did not know how long a time passed. The night was endless. Suddenly one of the men sitting there broke into uncontrollable sobbing, loudly, like a child, and Mackintosh grew aware that the room was crowded by this time with natives. They sat all over the floor on their haunches, men and women, staring at the bed.
'What are all these people doing here?' said Mackintosh. 'They've got no right. Turn them out, turn them out, all of them.'
His words seemed to rouse Walker, for he opened his eyes once more, and now they were all misty. He wanted to speak, but he was so weak that Mackintosh had to strain his ears to catch what he said.
'Let them stay. They're my children. They ought to be here.'
Mackintosh turned to the natives.
'Stay where you are. He wants you. But be silent.'
A faint smile came over the old man's white face.
'Come nearer,' he said.
Mackintosh bent over him. His eyes were closed and the words he said were like a wind sighing through the fronds of the coconut trees.
'Give me another drink. I've got something to say.'
This time Mackintosh gave him his whisky neat. Walker collected his strength in a final effort of will.
'Don't make a fuss about this. In 'ninety-five when there were troubles white men were killed, and the fleet came and shelled the villages. A lot of people were killed who'd had nothing to do with it. They're damned fools at Apia. If they make a fuss they'll only punish the wrong people. I don't want anyone punished.'
He paused for a while to rest.
'You must say it was an accident. No one's to blame. Promise me that.'
'I'll do anything you like,' whispered Mackintosh.
'Good chap. One of the best. They're children. I'm their father. A father don't let his children get into trouble if he can help it.'
A ghost of a chuckle came out of his throat. It was astonishingly weird and ghastly.
'You're a religious chap, Mac. What's that about forgiving them? You know.'
For a while Mackintosh did not answer. His lips trembled.
'Forgive them, for they know not what they do?'
'That's right. Forgive them. I've loved them, you know, always loved them.'
He sighed. His lips faintly moved, and now Mackintosh had to put his ears quite close to them in order to hear.
'Hold my hand,' he said.
Mackintosh gave a gasp. His heart seemed wrenched. He took the old man's hand, so cold and weak, a coarse, rough hand, and held it in his own. And thus he sat until he nearly started out of his seat, for the silence was suddenly broken by a long rattle. It was terrible and unearthly. Walker was dead. Then the natives broke out with loud cries. The tears ran down their faces, and they beat their breasts.
Mackintosh disengaged his hand from the dead man's, and staggering like one drunk with sleep he went out of the room. He went to the locked drawer in his writing-desk and took out the revolver. He walked down to the sea and walked into the lagoon; he waded out cautiously, so that he should not trip against a coral rock, till the water came to his arm-pits. Then he put a bullet through his head.
An hour later half a dozen slim brown sharks were splashing and struggling at the spot where he fell.
III
Bateman Hunter slept badly. For a fortnight on the boat that brought him from Tahiti to San Francisco he had been thinking of the story he had to tell, and for three days on the train he had repeated to himself the words in which he meant to tell it. But in a few hours now he would be in Chicago, and doubts assailed him. His conscience, always very sensitive, was not at ease. He was uncertain that he had done all that was possible, it was on his honour to do much more than the possible, and the thought was disturbing that, in a matter which so nearly touched his own interest, he had allowed his interest to prevail over his quixotry. Self-sacrifice appealed so keenly
