“Why,” said Denison, “you seem to know the place.”
“I do,” he answered, quietly, “know it well, and know Martin, too. You'll find him drunk.”
They walked up the white path of broken coral and stood in the doorway of the big front room. At the far end, on a native sofa, lay Martin; by his side sat a young native girl fanning him. No one else.
The gaunt black-whiskered trader tried to rise, but with a varied string of oaths lashed together he fell back, waving his hand to Denison in recognition. The girl was not a native of the island—that could be seen at a glance. She was as handsome as a picture, and after giving the two white men a dignified greeting, in the Yap (Caroline Islands) dialect, she resumed her fanning and smoking her cigarette.
“Martin,” said the supercargo, “shake yourself together. What is the matter? Are you sick, or is it only the usual drunk?”
“Both,” came in tones that sounded as if his inside were lined with cotton wool; “got a knife in my ribs six months back; never got well; and I've been drinking all the time “—and then, with a silly smile of childish vanity, “all over her. She's my new girl—wot d'ye think of her? Ain't she a star?”
All this time Chaplin stood back until Denison called him up and said to the trader, “Our new captain, Martin!”
“By God,” said the trader, slowly, “if he ain't the image of that ——— nigger-catching skipper that was here from Honolulu four years ago.”
“That's me!” said Chaplin, coolly puffing away at his cigar, and taking a seat near the sofa, with one swift glance of admiration at the face of the girl.