“And do you think the Papuan has been stealing?” I had got into the woolens now, and the tender, a Malay, came forward to help me into the dress itself.
“Naw! Papuans aren’t no pearl-stealers. They’ll steal food, or clothes, or tools, but pearls—they haven’t no use for them, and they’re not sharp enough to smuggle and sell them.”
I had learned almost as much as I wanted now. The rest, though I did not hear it from Joe Gilbert till later, I will tell here. The Greek had “shadowed” the Papuan down to the boat, on which both were engaged. He had got close to him during the run out, and tried to examine the curio-bag that the Papuan carried round his neck. Most of the natives disliked and distrusted the Greek, and Mo’s brother was not likely to feel any kindness toward the white man who had dug up and maltreated the body of his only relative. He drew away and refused to let the Greek put a finger on his bag.
The Greek pretended that he had been only jesting, and let him alone till they arrived over the pearling grounds. Then the two descended together, from opposite sides of the vessel. When we came up they had been alone in the depths of the sea for over an hour.
Our captain noted the length of time the divers had been under, and talked self-righteously about the carelessness of “Good Joe Gilbert.”
“He had them down long before we was in sight,” said our skipper. “Bring along that corselet, Tanjong. Give me a wrench. I see to things myself on my ship, I do.” (He began screwing me into my dress by means of the wrench, talking all the time.) “And look at them tenders of Gilbert’s—pre-tenders, I call them. Are they watching the air-tubes proper, or are they not?”
I really did not know enough to say.
The captain went on: “Now I’ll tend you myself, and you’ll be as safe as if you was in the hotel in Samarai, drinkin’ a long beer. You know the signals?”
“I know one pull on the signal-line is ‘pull me up,’ and I know how to work the taps in the helmet. I reckon that’s enough.” They were putting on my lead-soled boots now and hanging a huge locket of lead round my neck. I can not express how I hated the idea of going down.
And the Marquis, sitting on the hatch, his large pink face standing out like a harvest moon against the heaving sea, was whistling—of all tunes on earth—the Dead March in “Saul.” By this, I guessed that his thoughts were somber.