King Smith took the glasses and levelled them at the little speck on the horizon.
“It is a schooner, but not mine,” he said. “A chance trader perhaps. Mine can’t be here for three days. That one can’t get here to-night. To-morrow morning we shall see. And how do you feel to-night, Cyril?”
“As I deserve to feel, I suppose. I am bad company to-night. You are the first person to whom I have spoken to-day, and I have neither eaten nor drunk.”
“Poor devil, come up and have a drink now.”
“No, thanks. I’m going for a swim.”
“Don’t recommend it,” said the King.
“The sharks are welcome,” said Mast.
The sun set. Light streamed out from native-built houses. In all directions one heard the sound of singing. It mingled with the lap and fret of wavelets on the shore. Mast swam out and back again in safety. As he walked along the beach a native girl called to him. She stood in the light of one of the houses, a flower of scarlet hibiscus behind her ear; her white teeth shone as she smiled.
One by one the lights of the houses went out. The sky became gemmed with many stars. Faloo was asleep. The King had put aside for a while his problem—how to get in touch with an Englishman who could help him.