“Well!” muttered Lingard, moving his feet uneasily. “I believe you lie. What kind of boat?”
“White men's boat. A four-men boat, I think. Small. Tuan, I hear him now! There!”
He stretched his arm straight out, pointing abeam for a time, then his arm fell slowly.
“Coming this way,” he added with decision.
From forward Shaw called out in a startled tone:
“Something on the water, sir! Broad on this bow!”
“All right!” called back Lingard.
A lump of blacker darkness floated into his view. From it came over the water English words—deliberate, reaching him one by one; as if each had made its own difficult way through the profound stillness of the night.
“What—ship—is—that—pray?”
“English brig,” answered Lingard, after a short moment of hesitation.