Chapter Eighteen.
A Tragic End to our Troubles.
On a certain evening, some eight or ten days after that outburst on the part of the Finn in connection with his demand for weapons, Billy remarked to me, apropos of nothing in particular, as we sat together studying as usual:
“That Dutchman is a queer chap and no mistake, Mr Blackburn. He will sit for hours, saying never a word but: ‘Billy, pass me that,’ or ‘Billy, take hold of this,’ and then all of a sudden he’ll begin to chatter like a parrot.”
“Really!” said I. “And what does he chatter about?”
“Oh, all sorts of things,” answered Billy, “chiefly about what he and Svorenssen went through before they joined us here. And he likes to hear how we managed, too, before we settled down on Eden. Do you know, I’m beginning to think he’s not such a bad sort of chap after all. He seems to admire you immensely.”
“Does he, indeed?” I commented dryly. “In what particular way does he reveal his admiration?”
“Well,” said Billy, “he thinks you are perfectly wonderful, every way. Wonderfully clever as a navigator, you know; clever to have been able to build the sailing boat; still more clever to have designed and very nearly built such a beautiful craft as the cutter; and most clever of all to have built this bungalow. He said that he could understand that a clever sailor like you might be able to build a boat; but he could not understand how any sailor—even you—could build such a fine house. He wanted to know how long it took us to build it, and how we set about it, whether you invented it as we went on, or whether you drew it out on paper beforehand; and when I said that you had drawn it all out before we began to build, he said that he’d dearly like to see the drawing, because it would give him some wrinkles if he should ever again be shipwrecked.”
“And what did you say to that?” I asked.