In all his life Dan had never arrived at a decision that he grasped more tenaciously or which yielded him a greater measure of comfort. A subconscious appeal permeated this new thought of freedom as a phrase runs through an opera. Free! He was going to be free! He was a volatile spirit and he had been corked too long; the collapse of his business offered him a splendid excuse for pulling the cork, and by all the gods, Christian and pagan, he would pull it. That was the idea! Chuck it, chuck it all and walk out of the picture without even a word of farewell to his world.
“I’ll do it! By judas priest, I’ll do it,” he said audibly.
“I thought you would,” said Captain Hackett’s calm voice. Dan turned and caught the glow of the master’s cigar as the latter stood on the companion with his head and shoulders out of the cabin scuttle. “You’ve been thinking it over long enough. Your brains must be addled.”
“Well, it is comforting to have come to a conclusion, at any rate,” Dan defended.
“My guess is that you have concluded to settle in Riva and let the rest of the world go by, Mr. Pritchard.”
“That remark forces me to wonder again why you continue to skipper a trading schooner, Captain. You should hang out your shingle as a clairvoyant or mind reader or fortune teller.”
“I’ve seen your kind come and I’ve seen your kind go,” Hackett retorted. “Once I was one of you—and I came but never went—and now it is too late. Which is why I repeat, in all respect, that even if you stay, it will not be necessary to marry Tamea. Let the world go by, if you choose—you are the best judge of your wisdom in that regard—but remember that down under the Line it goes by very slowly, my son. These islands are not for white men—that is, your kind of white man—unless you contemplate vegetating and going to pieces mentally, morally and physically before you are forty. The sun does things to fair-haired and blue-eyed men and women down in the latitude and longitude of Riva. You will not be happy there, Mr. Pritchard, and one of these days when I drop in at Riva you’ll hear your white world calling—and the Chink will dig up another two thousand dollars for me. And when you leave, Mr. Pritchard, it would be well to have no legal appendages.”
Dan was silent. He wanted to bash this tropical philosopher over the head with a belaying pin and cause him to stow forever his insulting and impossible advice. But—he reflected—if he did that he would be delayed getting to Riva and Tamea, and he could not bear that she should suffer one moment longer than necessary. Hackett read his thoughts.
“We will not discuss this subject again, Mr. Pritchard,” he said gently. “I have said my say because I have felt it my duty to do so. Personally, I don’t give a damn what happens to you, but I should not care to see Gaston’s daughter made unhappy. I have roved through these islands some thirty years and I know what I know. Have a cigar. They’re genuine Sumatras. A bit dry, but if you like a dry cigar—— No? Well, you needn’t grow huffy.”
Dan continued his swift walk up and down the deck and Hackett continued to smoke contemplatively. After a while he said: