Another thing puzzled Marston. Don Felix had known the negroes and had, moreover, negro blood in his veins, but the trade had not extended until he was dead. It was strange the efforts of a white man and a stranger had led to the sudden extension. Harry had obviously qualities and knowledge that had not marked the other. But what were the qualities, and what did he know? Although Marston sometimes brooded over this, he saw no light.
One evening he sat in the cabin and studied their trading accounts while Wyndham smoked. It was very hot and Marston's face and hands were wet with sweat and his eyes were dazzled. Flies hovered about the light and now and then a beetle struck the mosquito gauze in the skylight. Presently Marston put down his pen and frowned.
"My brain's dull to-night," he said. "I ought to be satisfied with the results of our venture, but there are things I don't see quite plain. For example, we have got a lot of stuff for which we don't seem to have paid."
"You are supercargo," Wyndham rejoined. "The accounts are yours and they're remarkably accurate. All we have got is properly charged against us."
"That is so; I have used your figures. All the same, we haven't handed over much money."
"The business is largely done by barter."
"Of course," said Marston, with a touch of impatience. "We haven't delivered much goods against the account."
"The goods will be delivered. Our customers haven't yet stated the articles they want."
"This means they trust us until we can bring the stuff from England or America? In fact, they're willing to trust us for some time?"
"It looks like that," said Wyndham and laughed. "Are you puzzled about it, Bob? After all, Wyndhams' has long traded here and the house's reputation is obviously pretty good."