“I don’t interfere with the Dutch,” interrupted Lingard, impatiently. “I want Hassim to get back his own—”
“And suppose the Dutch want the things just so,” returned Jörgenson. “Anyway there is a devil in such work—drop it!”
“Look here,” said Lingard, “I took these people off when they were in their last ditch. That means something. I ought not to have meddled and it would have been all over in a few hours. I must have meant something when I interfered, whether I knew it or not. I meant it then—and did not know it. Very well. I mean it now—and do know it. When you save people from death you take a share in their life. That’s how I look at it.”
Jörgenson shook his head.
“Foolishness!” he cried, then asked softly in a voice that trembled with curiosity—“Where did you leave them?”
“With Belarab,” breathed out Lingard. “You knew him in the old days.”
“I knew him, I knew his father,” burst out the other in an excited whisper. “Whom did I not know? I knew Sentot when he was King of the South Shore of Java and the Dutch offered a price for his head—enough to make any man’s fortune. He slept twice on board the Wild Rose when things had begun to go wrong with him. I knew him, I knew all his chiefs, the priests, the fighting men, the old regent who lost heart and went over to the Dutch, I knew—” he stammered as if the words could not come out, gave it up and sighed—“Belarab’s father escaped with me,” he began again, quietly, “and joined the Padris in Sumatra. He rose to be a great leader. Belarab was a youth then. Those were the times. I ranged the coast—and laughed at the cruisers; I saw every battle fought in the Battak country—and I saw the Dutch run; I was at the taking of Singal and escaped. I was the white man who advised the chiefs of Manangkabo. There was a lot about me in the Dutch papers at the time. They said I was a Frenchman turned Mohammedan—” he swore a great oath, and, reeling against the guardrail, panted, muttering curses on newspapers.
“Well, Belarab has the job in hand,” said Lingard, composedly. “He is the chief man on the Shore of Refuge. There are others, of course. He has sent messages north and south. We must have men.”
“All the devils unchained,” said Jörgenson. “You have done it and now—look out—look out. …”
“Nothing can go wrong as far as I can see,” argued Lingard. “They all know what’s to be done. I’ve got them in hand. You don’t think Belarab unsafe? Do you?”
“Haven’t seen him for fifteen years—but the whole thing’s unsafe,” growled Jörgenson.
“I tell you I’ve fixed it so that nothing can go wrong. It would be better if I had a white man over there to look after things generally. There is a good lot of stores and arms—and Belarab would bear watching—no doubt. Are you in any want?” he added, putting his hand in his pocket.
“No, there’s plenty to eat in the house,” answered Jörgenson, curtly. “Drop it,” he burst out. “It would be better for you to jump overboard at once. Look at me. I came out a boy of eighteen. I can speak English, I can speak Dutch, I can speak every cursed lingo of these islands—I remember things that would make your hair stand on end—but I have forgotten the language of my own country. I’ve traded, I’ve fought, I never broke my word to white or native. And, look at me. If it hadn’t been for the girl I would have died in a ditch ten years ago. Everything left me—youth, money, strength, hope—the very sleep. But she stuck by the wreck.”
“That says a lot for her and something for you,” said Lingard, cheerily.
Jörgenson shook his head.
“That’s the worst of all,” he said with slow emphasis. “That’s the end. I came to them from the other side of the earth and they took me and—see what they made of me.”
“What place do you belong to?” asked Lingard.
“Tromso,” groaned out Jörgenson; “I will never see snow again,” he sobbed out, his face in his hands.
Lingard looked at him in silence.
“Would you come with me?” he said. “As I told you, I am in want of a—”
“I would see you damned first!” broke out the other, savagely. “I am an old white loafer, but you don’t get me to meddle in their infernal affairs. They have a devil of their own—”
“The thing simply can’t fail. I’ve calculated every move. I’ve guarded against everything. I am no fool.”
“Yes—you are. Good night.”
“Well, goodbye,” said Lingard, calmly.
He stepped into his boat, and Jörgenson walked up the jetty. Lingard, clearing the yoke lines, heard him call out from a distance:
“Drop it!”
“I sail before sunrise,” he shouted in answer, and went on board.
When he came up from his cabin after an uneasy night, it was dark yet. A lank figure strolled across the deck.
“Here I am,” said Jörgenson, huskily. “Die there or here—all one. But, if I die there, remember the girl must eat.”
Lingard was one of
