“And Parsons, your trader at Hickimavi, told me that the Fulcrum Company had bought that station from you. Now what did he want to lie for?”
Griffiths, overwrought by sun and sickness, exploded. All his bitterness of spirit rose up in his face and twisted his mouth into a snarl.
“Look here, Grief, what's the good of playing with me that way? You know, and I know you know. Let it go at that. I have sold out, and I am getting away. And what are you going to do about it?”
Grief shrugged his shoulders, and no hint of resolve shadowed itself in his own face. His expression was as of one in a quandary.
“There's no law here,” Griffiths pressed home his advantage. “Tulagi is a hundred and fifty miles away. I've got my clearance papers, and I'm on my own boat. There's nothing to stop me from sailing. You've got no right to stop me just because I owe you a little money. And by God! you can't stop me. Put that in your pipe.”
The look of pained surprise on Grief's face deepened.
“You mean you're going to cheat me out of that twelve hundred, Griffiths?”
“That's just about the size of it, old man. And calling hard names won't help any. There's the wind coming. You'd better get overside before I pull out, or I'll tow your canoe under.”
“Really, Griffiths, you sound almost right. I can't stop you.” Grief fumbled in the pouch that hung on his revolver-belt and pulled out a crumpled official-looking paper. “But maybe this will stop you. And it's something for your pipe. Smoke up.”
“What is it?”