a Mistress of Life, rejoicing, alluring,--who was now the
single coward in the room. But was she? The question was quick and
revolting. As quickly, a choice of sides was forced on him. He
understood these people, recalled Heywood's saying, and with that, some
story of a regiment which lay waiting in the open, and sang while the
bullets picked and chose. All together: as now these half-dozen men
were roaring cheerfully:--

"Ma Tonkiki, ma Tonkiki, ma Tonkinoise,
Yen a d'autr's qui m' font les doux yeux,
Mais c'est ell' que j'aim' le mieux!"

The new recruit joined them, awkwardly.

CHAPTER IV

THE SWORD-PEN

"Wutzler was missing last night," said Heywood, lazily. He had finished
breakfast, and lighted a short, fat, glossy pipe. "Just occurred to me.
We must have a look in on him. Poor old Wutz, he's getting worse and
worse. Chantel's right, I fancy: it's the native wife." He rose, with a
short laugh. "Queer. The rest never feel so,--Nesbit, and Sturgeon, and
that lot. But then, they don't fall so low as to marry theirs."

"By the way," he sneered, on the landing, "until this scare blows over,
you'd better postpone any such establishment, if you intend--"

"I do not," stammered Rudolph.

To his amazement, the other clapped him on the shoulder.

"I say!" The sallow face and cynical gray eyes lighted, for the first
time, with something like enthusiasm. Next moment they had darkened
again, but not before he had said gruffly, "You're not a bad
little chap."

Morosely, as if ashamed of this outburst, he led the way through the
bare, sunny compound, and when the gate had closed rattling behind
them, stated their plans concisely and sourly. "No work to-day, not a
stroke! We'll just make it a holiday, catchee good time.--What? No. Rot!
I won't work, and you can't. That's all there is about that. Don't be an
ass! Come along. We'll go out first and see Captain Kneebone." And when
Rudolph, faithful to certain tradesmen snoring in Bremen, would have
protested mildly, he let fly a stinging retort, and did not regain his
temper until they had passed the outskirts of the village. Yet even the
quarrel seemed part of some better understanding, some new, subtle bond
between two lonely men.

Before them opened a broad field dotted with curious white disks, like
bone buttons thrown on a green carpet. Near at hand, coolies trotted and
stooped, laying out more of these circular baskets, filled with tiny
dough-balls. Ma