He smiled up at Heyst in his peculiar lip-retracting manner, and added by way of afterthought:
“That’s what will happen to him in the end, if he doesn’t learn to restrain himself. But I’ve taught him to mind his manners for a while, anyhow!”
And again he addressed his quick grin up to the man on the wharf. His round eyes had never left Heyst’s face ever since he began to deliver his account of the voyage.
“So that’s how he looks!” Ricardo was saying to himself.
He had not expected Heyst to be like this. He had formed for himself a conception containing the helpful suggestion of a vulnerable point. These solitary men were often tipplers. But no!—this was not a drinking man’s face; nor could he detect the weakness of alarm, or even the weakness of surprise, on these features, in these steady eyes.
“We were too far gone to climb out,” Ricardo went on. “I heard you walking along, though. I thought I shouted; I tried to. You didn’t hear me shout?”
Heyst made an almost imperceptible negative sign, which the greedy eyes of Ricardo—greedy for all signs—did not miss.
“Throat too parched. We didn’t even care to whisper to each other lately. Thirst chokes one. We might have died there under this wharf before you found us.”
“I couldn’t think where you had gone to.” Heyst was heard at last, addressing directly the newcomers from the sea. “You were seen as soon as you cleared that point.”
“We were seen, eh?” grunted Mr. Ricardo. “We pulled like machines—daren’t stop. The governor sat at the tiller, but he couldn’t speak to us. She drove in between the piles till she hit something, and we all tumbled off the thwarts as if we had been drunk. Drunk—ha, ha! Too dry, by George! We fetched in here with the very last of our strength, and no mistake. Another mile would have done for us. When I heard your footsteps above, I tried to get up, and I fell down.”
“That was the first sound I heard,” said Heyst.
Mr. Jones, the front of his soiled white tunic soaked and plastered against his breastbone, staggered away from the water-pipe. Steadying himself on Ricardo’s shoulder, he drew a long breath, raised his dripping head, and produced a smile of ghastly amiability, which was lost upon the thoughtful Heyst. Behind his back the sun, touching the water, was like a disc of iron cooled to a dull red glow, ready to start rolling round the circular steel plate of the sea, which, under the darkening sky, looked more solid than the high ridge of Samburan; more solid than the point, whose long outlined slope melted into its own unfathomable shadow blurring the dim sheen on the bay. The forceful stream from the pipe broke like shattered glass on the boat’s gunwale. Its loud, fitful, and persistent splashing revealed the depth of the world’s silence.
“Great notion, to lead the water out here,” pronounced Ricardo appreciatively.
Water was life. He felt now as if he could run a mile, scale a ten-foot wall, sing a song. Only a few minutes ago he was next door to a corpse, done up, unable to stand, to lift a hand; unable to groan. A drop of water had done that miracle.
“Didn’t you feel life itself running and soaking into you, sir?” he asked his principal, with deferential but forced vivacity.
Without a word, Mr. Jones stepped off the thwart and sat down in the stern-sheets.
“Isn’t that man of yours bleeding to death in the bows under there?” inquired Heyst.
Ricardo ceased his ecstasies over the life-giving water and answered in a tone of innocence:
“He? You may call him a man, but his hide is a jolly sight tougher than the toughest alligator he ever skinned in the good old days. You don’t know how much he can stand: I do. We have tried him long time ago. Olà, there! Pedro! Pedro!” he yelled, with a force of lung testifying to the regenerative virtues of water.
A weak “Señor?” came from under the wharf.
“What did I tell you?” said Ricardo triumphantly. “Nothing can hurt him. He’s all right. But, I say, the boat’s getting swamped. Can’t you turn this water off before you sink her under us? She’s half full already.”
At a sign from Heyst, Wang hammered at the brass tap on the wharf, then stood behind Number One, crowbar in hand, motionless as before. Ricardo was perhaps not so certain of Pedro’s toughness as he affirmed; for he stooped, peering under the wharf, then moved forward out of sight. The gush of water, ceasing suddenly, made a silence which became complete when the after-trickle stopped. Afar, the sun was reduced to a red spark, glowing very low in the breathless immensity of twilight. Purple gleams lingered on the water all round the boat. The spectral figure in the stern-sheets spoke in a languid tone:
“That—er—companion—er—secretary of mine is a queer chap. I am afraid we aren’t presenting ourselves in a very favourable light.”
Heyst listened. It was the conventional voice of an educated man, only strangely lifeless. But more strange yet was this concern for appearances, expressed, he did not know, whether in jest or in earnest. Earnestness was hardly to be supposed under the circumstances, and no one had ever jested in such dead tones. It was something which could not be answered, and Heyst said nothing. The other went on:
“Travelling as I do, I find a man of his sort extremely useful. He has his little weaknesses, no doubt.”
“Indeed!” Heyst was provoked into speaking. “Weakness of the arm is not one of them; neither is an exaggerated humanity, as far as I can judge.”
“Defects of
