The tide was running up, but the wind still held from the northeast, and though moderated in force since the evening it was strong enough to take them slowly down toward the Good Intent. The sky was lightening, but a slight mist hung over the river. Desmond kept a close lookout ahead, and after about half an hour he caught sight of the hull of the Good Intent, looming before him out of the mist. Allowing the second boat to come alongside, he turned and spoke to the serang.
"Now, Hossain, there she is. Hail her."
"Hai, hai!" shouted the man. "Do the sahibs want to buy any fresh fruit?"
An oath floated down from the stern. Captain Barker was there, peering intently through the mist up the river.
"Good melons, sahib, all fresh, and not too ripe. Cheap as ragi, sahib."
The mate had joined the captain; the Dutch pilot stood by, smoking a pipe. The fruit boats had by this time come under the stern of the vessel, and Desmond heard the mate say:
"We came away in such a hurry, sir, that we hadn't time to take in a supply of vegetables. Melons'll keep, sir, if they en't overripe."
Barker growled, then bent over and called to the serang. "How much?"
"Very cheap, sahib, very cheap. I will come aboard."
"Then be quick about it: we're going to trip the anchor, melons or no melons. D'ye hear?"