From a safe distance the boy pointed toward a cargo lighter moored to the quay.
“Been hiding there, have you?” said Lingard. “Well, what do you want? Speak out, confound you. You did not come here to scare me to death, for fun, did you?”
The boy tried to explain in imperfect English, but very soon Lingard interrupted him.
“I see,” he exclaimed, “you ran away from the big ship that sailed this morning. Well, why don’t you go to your countrymen here?”
“Ship gone only a little way—to Sourabaya. Make me go back to the ship,” explained the boy.
“Best thing for you,” affirmed Lingard with conviction.
“No,” retorted the boy; “me want stop here; not want go home. Get money here; home no good.”
“This beats all my going a-fishing,” commented the astonished Lingard. “It’s money you want? Well! well! And you were not afraid to run away, you bag of bones, you!”
The boy intimated that he was frightened of nothing but of being sent back to the ship. Lingard looked at him in meditative silence.
“Come closer,” he said at last. He took the boy by the chin, and turning up his face gave him a searching look. “How old are you?”