“He could a sent word. Or they’d a sent dinner here. I’ve knowed Dagoes do that. You got good eyes, Ed. What d’you make of the woods there, back of the sand?” He turned to Margaret. “He’d been with the Indians three or four years, Ed done. He sees things in brush like that, just like an animal.”
All hands stared into the wall of green, which rose up eighty yards away, beyond the line of the sand. The trees towered up, notching the sky with their outlines. The sun blazed down upon them, till they flashed, as though their leaves were green steel. They made a wall of forest, linked, tangled, criss-crossed, hiding an inner darkness. A parrot was tearing at a blossom high up on a creeper, flinging out the petals with little wicked twists of his head. He showed up clearly against the sky in that strong light.
“Nothing wrong there,” said Ed. “Look at the parrot.”
They looked at the parrot, and laughed to hear him abuse the flower.
“They’re the kind you can learn to speak, sir,” said a seaman. “I’ve known some of them birds swear, you would think it was real. Some of them can do it in Spanish.”
“The Spaniards don’t swear,” said another man.
“They’ve got caramba,” said the first. “Caramba. That’s the same as God damn is in English.”
“Funny way of saying it,” said the other.
“Some one’s in that brush,” said the man called Ed. “See the paharo?”
Something had startled the parrot. He leaped up with a scream from his liane, made a half-circle in the air, and flew away, wavering, along the coast. One or two other birds rose as quietly as moths, and flitted into the night of the wood. A deer stepped out on to the beach daintily, picking her steps. She sniffed towards the town, listened, seemed to hear something, caught sight of the boat, and fled. Then came a sudden chattering of monkeys, a burst of abusive crying, lasting only for a moment.