"Where in the name o' God did you come from?" demanded the man with the brier-root pipe.
"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back."
The sandy-headed man backed away.
"From the fever camps?"
Blake could afford to smile at the movement.
"Don't worry—there 's no fever 'round me. That 's what I 've been through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered coat-cloth.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can't go back!"
The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much wandering about the earth.
"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back at the waiting stranger.