They stopped within arm's length of the whites, and for some time nobody said a word. Then Hassim gave Lingard a significant glance, and uttered rapidly with a slight toss of the head that indicated in a manner the whole of the yacht:
“I see no guns!”
“N—no!” said Lingard, looking suddenly confused. It had occurred to him that for the first time in two years or more he had forgotten, utterly forgotten, these people's existence.
Immada stood slight and rigid with downcast eyes. Hassim, at his ease, scrutinized the faces, as if searching for elusive points of similitude or for subtle shades of difference.
“What is this new intrusion?” asked Mr. Travers, angrily.
“These are the fisher-folk, sir,” broke in the sailing-master, “we've observed these three days past flitting about in a canoe; but they never had the sense to answer our hail; and yet a bit of fish for your breakfast—” He smiled obsequiously, and all at once, without provocation, began to bellow:
“Hey! Johnnie! Hab got fish? Fish! One peecee fish! Eh? Savee? Fish! Fish—” He gave it up suddenly to say in a deferential tone—“Can't make them savages understand anything, sir,” and withdrew as if after a clever feat.
Hassim looked at Lingard.
“Why did the little white man make that outcry?” he asked, anxiously.
“Their desire is to eat fish,” said Lingard in an enraged tone.