Redmond strolled toward the window and swore at the surf. He had some justification, for the whole heave of the southern ocean hurled itself thundering upon the hammered beach. The factory windows rattled as each breaker dissolved into long sheets of foam which surged far up the trembling sand, while the steamy haze of spray veiled almost to its summit the lofty bluff behind the edifice.
"No use lighting the signal fire. There's not a surf-boat on the coast could run a load of produce through. The Kabunda can either blow her whistle off or go on again," he said. "It's even too bad to venture off light, and screw an odd bottle of liquor out of her purser."
"It always is when the markets are rising and we have cargo waiting," grumbled Gilby. "As to the liquor, you can go yourself if you want it. I'm not over-keen on playing that game with the Kabunda's new factotum again. It takes a good deal to stir me, but that man has no sense of humor, and was positively insulting. 'No cargo in your confounded boat?' growls he. 'Well, the next time you stop this mailboat just because you're thirsty, we'll heave you over the rail!'"
Redmond chuckled dryly. The steamboat officials who ply along that coast have a good deal to ruffle them; and it is exasperating for the master of a steamer, attracted by flag or fire signal, to anchor off a dangerous beach expecting several boat-loads of cargo at least, and then discover that the shipper desires only a piece of ice or gratis liquor.
"Better wait for the old Luala. She's the canteen ship. Still, we'll sit up until we hear the Kabunda's whistle. It sounds homelike," he said.
Gilby nodded approval, for the coast-hunting steamers were the only link connecting the two lonely men with civilization, and there were times when they acquired a childish fear of losing all touch with it.
Redmond sat smoking in silence, while Gilby listlessly turned over an old English newspaper, and huge brown cockroaches crawled up and down the mildewed walls.
"Hallo!" Redmond exclaimed suddenly. "There's a man with boots on crossing the compound. Who, by all that's wonderful, can it be?"
"The Frenchman from Swamp Creek, looking for drinks," suggested Gilby.
"Guyot's dying of fever this time, sure, his nigger said. There's no other white man within marching distance; but whoever it is is coming up the stairs!"