vast body of water. A glimmer here and there was all
he could see of it; and once he might after all suppose he had dozed
off, since there appeared before his vision, unexpectedly and connected
with no dream, a row of flaming and gigantic figures--three naught seven
one two--making up a number such as you may see on a lottery ticket.
And then all at once the port was no longer black: it was pearly gray,
framing a shore crowded with houses, thatched roof beyond thatched
roof, walls of mats and bamboo, gables of carved teak timber. Rows
of dwellings raised on a forest of piles lined the steely band of the
river, brimful and still, with the tide at the turn. This was Batu
Beru--and the day had come.

Mr. Massy shook himself, put on the tweed coat, and, shivering nervously
as if from some great shock, made a note of the number. A fortunate,
rare hint that. Yes; but to pursue fortune one wanted money--ready cash.

Then he went out and prepared to descend into the engine-room. Several
small jobs had to be seen to, and Jack was lying dead drunk on the
floor of his cabin, with the door locked at that. His gorge rose at
the thought of work. Ay! But if you wanted to do nothing you had to get
first a good bit of money. A ship won't save you. He cursed the Sofala.
True, all true. He was tired of waiting for some chance that would rid
him at last of that ship that had turned out a curse on his life.

XIV

The deep, interminable hoot of the steam-whistle had, in its grave,
vibrating note, something intolerable, which sent a slight shudder down
Mr. Van Wyk's back. It was the early afternoon; the Sofala was leaving
Batu Beru for Pangu, the next place of call. She swung in the stream,
scantily attended by a few canoes, and, gliding on the broad river,
became lost to view from the Van Wyk bungalow.

Its owner had not gone this time to see her off. Generally he came down
to the wharf, exchanged a few words with the bridge while she cast off,
and waved his hand to Captain Whalley at the last moment. This day he
did not even go as far as the balustrade of the veranda. "He couldn't
see me if I did," he said to himself. "I wonder whether he can make out
the house at all." And this thought somehow made him feel more alone
than he had ever felt for all these years. What was it? six or seven?
Seven. A long time.

He sat on the veranda with a closed book on his knee, and, as it were,
looked out upon his solitude, as if the fact of Captain