“Me!” said Tommie surprised.
“Yes—if you don’t mind.”
“All right,” said she. Then to Hank, “You’ll find the book in my bunk, and fetch me my tooth brush, will you—and that hair brush and my pyjamas, if we’ve got to camp.”
“Right,” said Hank, “you trust me.”
They shoved off, and to George, as he looked back, the huge figure of Candon and the little figure of his companion seemed strange standing side by side on that desolate beach. Stranger even than the whales’ skeletons that had vanished.
The wind had veered to the west and freshened, blowing in cool from the sea.
“Well,” said Tommie after they had watched the boat half way to the schooner, “what are you going to do now? What did you want me for?”
“I want to have a word with you,” said Candon. “S’pose we sit down. It’s fresh and breezy here and I can think better sitting down than standing up. I’m bothered at your being dragged into this business, and that’s the truth, and I’ve things to tell you.” They sat down and the big man took his pipe from his pocket and filled it in a leisurely and far-away manner, absolutely automatically.
Tommie watched him, vastly interested all of a sudden.
“It’s this way,” said he, “I got rid of the other chaps so’s I could get you alone, and I’m not going one peg further in this business till you know all about me and the chances you’re running. Y’ remember one day on deck I was talking to you about that chap Vanderdecken?”