And then we had to recount something of that parting clash with the blacks.
"Come, Marie," said her father at last. "We must leave these boys to get ready for the party."
The child had discovered the monkey, and they two were making friends, by inches.
"Oh, bring the monkey with you!" cried Marie, as she went over the side.
And so we dug out all our best bib and tucker for the fete. Duchanel sent aboard a pair of men from his establishment, for a guard to the Pearl, since all our party were expected ashore. And the sailors were given shore leave, except only the regular watch.
It may be imagined what the party was, that evening, with the Cambons, the Duchanels, and the music of the little orchestra in that very park of a lawn, lights hung between the trees, and the cooling drinks and sherbets, and the wonderful cookery of Madame Marat, assisted by Madame Duchanel. Andy Hawkins felt a bit out of place, and kept himself a good deal in the background. Once during the evening, Ray got me by the elbow and pulled me toward a clump of the shrubbery.
"Hawkins has been sending someone on an errand," he said.
We peeked round a bush. On the ground sat Hawkins, grimacing at a pop bottle in his hand. He set it to his lips, and drained it. It was the second; the first—empty—lay beside him. In front, ten bottles, untouched, awaited his attack. He drank out a third, and with some access of squirming, a fourth. The fifth he barely tasted of, and he groaned with his defeat. He set the bottles on the ground, put his hands to his stomach and belched gas.
"What's the matter, Hawkins?" said Ray. "Sick?"
"Oh, I s'y," returned Hawkins. "Hi ain't no good no more. Four bottles puts me under the tyble."