“Not a cent more than fifteen, not a cent, not a centime. I never go back on an offer of that sort.”
“When do you start?”
“It will take me a week to clear the cargo and get ready; meanwhile you have your pocket full of dollars, and you can amuse yourself.”
“I will come.”
“Your word on that.”
“I give you my word.”
You will perhaps have divined that in the character of Gaspard, a character primitive enough, childlike in some ways, and swayed by elemental passions, there lay a streak of straightness. To this man, who would not have known the meaning of “ethics,” straight-dealing came as a natural gift. Sagesse had divined this fact and valued it, for, speaking generally, there is no man in the world who values honour in another more than your rogue.
“Come,” said the Captain, rising from his seat. “I have business to do, and so have you. The Compagnie Transatlantique office is close here; go and report yourself; the port authorities will have you up before them too; you will most likely find their man at the shipping office, for I said you would be there, and, see here, you will want a suit or two of white drill; those clothes you have are too heavy for Martinique. Then you’ll want a room; there are sailors’ boarding-houses by the harbour, steer clear of them.”
He took a little notebook from his pocket and wrote a name and address on a sheet of paper, tore it out and handed it to his companion.
“Go there. Manman Faly, Rue du Morne, No. 3. She’ll put you up and find you a place. It’s off the Grande Rue. You’ll easily find it; come.”