“George Lygon—that is my real name—on board that ship of the infernal regions I was known by the name of Brown.” The old man looked at him again long and thoughtfully.
Then he turned on his heel. “Follow me,” said he.
Lygon followed him among the trees toward the house. As they passed the house door a little girl came out, the prettiest child in the world, a half-caste, with a flower of the scarlet hibiscus showing in the dusk of her hair.
“My little daughter,” said Captain Jourdain. Then to the child: “Kineia, the bad white men are still here. Listen, they are cutting our trees. Here is one we must hide from them. Should they come here you will say nothing of him.”
“Nothing, father,” said Kineia, gazing at the stranger with wide-pupiled eyes.
The captain led the way round to the storehouses. He was the sole trader on this island, working the business with his own schooner and through an agent in San Francisco. He passed the go-downs where copra was stored and led the way to a building behind them where he kept trade goods.
“You will be safe here,” said the captain, unlocking the door, “and Kineia will bring you some food. You could, of course, hide in the woods, but it is safer here—with the key in my pocket.”
Lygon went in and the captain turned the key on him.
Just at that moment the Yankee mate, coming out on the beach from among the trees, found Lygon gone. He was about to raise a hue and cry and call off the wood parties for a search, then he got command of himself. To search these woods would take a week, and if Lygon’s escape were known it might set an example to the others and half a dozen men might be lost. So instead of making a fuss, he told the others that “Brown” had been sent off to try and get fruit.
They did not know the truth of the matter till the wood was aboard and the Sarah Dodsley’s stern was turned to Utara, dark against a blazing sunset.