“Yet a good deal has met our eyes to–night,” was the quiet answer.
Peter worked his great hands methodically. He was not a man of many words; and when he expressed an opinion it was the outcome of calm deliberation.
“Tell me who them niggers an’ the other party wos, an’ I’ll do some fair guessin’,” he said. “Rum thing, too, that such a gazebo as that murderous–lookin’ swab on the calabash should cross our course just when it did. Were did it come from—that’s wot I want to know. Has there bin an earthquake? If looks count for anythink, it might have risen straight up from——”
“Peter,” broke in Warden, “I hope Chris is in bed?”
The pilot laughed.
“Time we wos, too, sir. May I ax w’ere his black nibs is stowed?”
“Among my traps. Forget it. I shall send it to London in the morning.”
“An’ a good job to be rid of it. I’ve seen some queer fish in the sea, from bottle–nosed whales an’ sharks to dead pigs who ‘ad cut their own throats with their fore feet by swimmin’ from a wrecked ship, but never before ‘ave I clapped my peepers on a fizzy–mahog like that.”
Twice had an unusually long speech betrayed his irate sentiment. He was deeply stirred. Warden, smoking and listening in silence, but never relaxing his vigilant scrutiny of the Sans Souci, felt that, in very truth, there must be some malign influence in the carved head on the gourd ere it would arouse the intense repugnance of two such different natures as those of the bluff, good–tempered sailor and the dainty, well–bred girl who had come so suddenly into his life.
He did not pursue the conversation. Though Evans was quite trustworthy, there was no need to make him a confidant in matters which might have the gravest bearing on an already troubled position in West Africa. The pilot’s carefully charged pipe was nearly empty when Warden surprised him with an abrupt question.