was: "What on earth am I going
to do with them?" And no one seemed to care what he would do. Jaffir
with eight others quartered on the main hatch, looked to each other's
wounds and conversed interminably in low tones, cheerful and quiet, like
well-behaved children. Each of them had saved his kris, but Lingard had
to make a distribution of cotton cloth out of his trade-goods. Whenever
he passed by them, they all looked after him gravely. Hassim and Immada
lived in the cuddy. The chief's sister took the air only in the evening
and those two could be heard every night, invisible and murmuring in the
shadows of the quarter-deck. Every Malay on board kept respectfully away
from them.

Lingard, on the poop, listened to the soft voices, rising and falling,
in a melancholy cadence; sometimes the woman cried out as if in anger or
in pain. He would stop short. The sound of a deep sigh would float up
to him on the stillness of the night. Attentive stars surrounded the
wandering brig and on all sides their light fell through a vast silence
upon a noiseless sea. Lingard would begin again to pace the deck,
muttering to himself.

"Belarab's the man for this job. His is the only place where I can look
for help, but I don't think I know enough to find it. I wish I had old
Jorgenson here--just for ten minutes."

This Jorgenson knew things that had happened a long time ago, and lived
amongst men efficient in meeting the accidents of the day, but who did
not care what would happen to-morrow and who had no time to remember
yesterday. Strictly speaking, he did not live amongst them. He only
appeared there from time to time. He lived in the native quarter, with
a native woman, in a native house standing in the middle of a plot
of fenced ground where grew plantains, and furnished only with mats,
cooking pots, a queer fishing net on two sticks, and a small mahogany
case with a lock and a silver plate engraved with the words "Captain H.
C. Jorgenson. Barque Wild Rose."

It was like an inscription on a tomb. The Wild Rose was dead, and so was
Captain H. C. Jorgenson, and the sextant case was all that was left
of them. Old Jorgenson, gaunt and mute, would turn up at meal times on
board any trading vessel in the Roads, and the stewards--Chinamen
or mulattos--would sulkily put on an extra plate without waiting for
orders. When the seamen traders foregathered noisily round a glittering
cluster of bottles and glasses on a lighted verandah, old Jor