It was too bald. He stepped across the floor, unlatched and threw open the blind of the window, letting the candlelight stream forth upon a mass of bougainvillaea vine without.
"I keep this door locked; you can imagine that," he laughed, returning and shutting us out of the gun room. He twisted the key; put it in his pocket. And there, at the back, that window blind stood open.
He stared at Signet, as if the beach comber were just discovered.
"You are hopeless, my dear sir."
"Let us have a drink," he shifted.
For Signet he poured out a tumblerful of raw gin. The fellow took it like a man in a daze—the daze of a slowly and fiercely solidifying resolution. It shivered in his hand. A habit of greed sucked his lips. Into his mouth he took a gulp of the spirits. He held it there. His eyes searched our faces with a kind of malignant defiance. Of a sudden he spat the stuff out, right on the floor. He said nothing. It was as if he said: "By God! if you think I need that! No! You don't know me!"
He stalked out of the door. When we followed as far as the veranda we saw him making off into the striped light to the left.—
"Why did you call it the 'Shame Dance,' Mynheer?" We were seated again.
"Of course, my dear sir, it is not that, but it has a sound so when the Kanakas speak it. The woman spoke the name. If it is a Polynesian word I have not heard it before. 'Shemdance.' Like that."
"A good name, though. By jingo! a darn good name. Eh, Mynheer?"