"And now you're going to tell me why you tried to sneak a boat at this hour o' night."
"Me like'm go fish," said Motauri.
"You've said that a dozen times, and it's no better. It don't pass. Go fish? Go soak your black head! What are you up to, hey? Come now—tell."
Motauri made no answer, and the other controlled himself. Behind his dark mask the big trader was under the empire of some powerful emotion. His hands clenched and opened again, trembling a little. His face shone like wet leather. But it was in a tone oddly detached, musing, that he went on.
"You're smart. I don't say a Kanaka can't be smart when he wants to hide anything. He can. I ain't figgered you yet. And that's a mighty healthy thing for you, my boy, d'y' see? Because, if I could once make sure it was you I saw slipping away by the chapel hedge two nights ago, I'd—" A purplish haze suffused his cheek. "I'd dig the heart out of your carcass with my two hands," he ended, very quietly, and hit the table so that it jumped. "Was it?" he roared.
"No-o, Mahrster," said Motauri.
"You lie—blast you—it was!"
"No, Mahrster."
"Was it you that's been hanging around that white fella girl b'long missionary—that's dared lift your dog's eyes to her?"
He crouched like a beast, ferine—all the obscure and diabolic passion of him ready to spring.