“No, I’ve water enough till I fetch Tomasu,” replied Bowlby, “I’ve brought some trade.”
“Trade,” said Seedbaum, offering a cigar. “Well, I don’t mind taking some prints and knives off you at a reasonable price. I’m full up with canned goods and tobacco, still—at a reasonable figure——”
“The trade’s not mine,” said Bowlby, lighting the cigar. “It belongs to the new trader—that gentleman there, Mr. Connart’s his name, let me make you known. Mr. Connart, this is Mr. Seedbaum.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” said Connart.
Seedbaum, fingering an unlit cigar, stared at Connart.
“Well, this gets me,” said he. “Why, Dobree cleared his last man out for good, there’s not business enough in this island for two—that’s flat—what’d he want sending you for?”
“He didn’t send me,” replied Connart.
“Then,” said Seedbaum, “what brought you here, anyway?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Connart, “this ship brought us here—and, excuse me—do you own this island?”
Seedbaum stared at her, then his glance fell before that quiet, unwavering gaze, and he turned to Bowlby.