Jim brushed his proffer aside.
"I've hired this island. You'll have to pay me rent if you stop here."
A shadow of wrath swept over the dark face. Instantly it was gone, and a smile replaced it.
"Rent!" he protested. "No, no! Friend no pay! We sing, we smoke, we drink, we playa cards. All good friend together. No pay money!"
The last very decided. The older man nodded vigorously in confirmation, and for the first time broke silence.
"No pay money!" he repeated. "All friend!"
The two laid their hands on their hearts and stood smiling and bowing. For a moment Jim was nonplussed. He backed the Barracouta out of earshot.
"Well, what d'you think of the outlook?" asked Lane.
"Don't like it, and I don't like them. Too much palaver! I've got 'em sized up. They're regular salt-water gipsies; I've heard of 'em before. They drift round from one place to another, fish a little, lobster a little, smoke a good deal, and drink more. They'd be worse than a pestilence on this island. Yes, sir! They've got to go! They know just as well as I do that they've no right to stop here; but they're going to bluff it through. They'll try to stave me off by pretending not to understand what I mean, but you noticed they were bright enough when money was mentioned."
"What are you going to do about it?"