Even the old Belle Arlésienne, that hag of the ocean, was touched by the magic of the day. Masts and spars and rigging, sun-blistered sides, all were reflected in the mirror of the harbour whilst her copper shewed up through the emerald-tinted shadows of the water; and the southern weeds and strips of fuci growing from the copper waved as if blown by a faint wind.
The cargo was coming out as fast as winches worked by hand could lift it, Jules was overseeing the work and he cast down the ladder for them to come on board. Sagesse when he reached the deck, looked around to see how things were going, then he entered the deck-house followed by Gaspard.
“You’ll take the same cabin,” said Sagesse, pointing to the dog hole on the starboard side, “I’ll tell Jules to get one of the niggers to clear it out for you, there’s a lot of old truck there that wants shifting and it will give you more room, you won’t have much gear to bring on board, I expect.”
“Not much—you say you are starting in three days, to-day is Tuesday—”
“I start on Friday.”
“Ah, yes, on Friday—well, it seems to me that is not a very good day to start on.”
“Cordieu!” cried Sagesse, suddenly shewing irritation, “what sort of old woman’s talk is that. What is wrong with Friday?”
Gaspard leaned against a bulkhead with his arms folded, he had scarcely spoken a word since leaving Jaques’ store and Sagesse had noticed his silence.
“I do not know what is wrong with Friday, but I do know that with a whole week to choose from, I would choose some other day, especially starting on an expedition of this sort. However, you can choose what day you like. I have only one question to ask you.”
“Yes?”