rs of the
Mazzaron--some one whose name was yet in the making, some one he could
get cheap.... So Louis had come. He was very keen on it. Henkel was to
bear all costs, to supply food, ammunition, trade-goods, etc., and pay
them according to the number of the new specimens that they found. 'So
you see,' said Scott, with his clean smile, 'Louis and I can't lose by
it.'

"We talked a bit more, and then young Scott said to me, suddenly:
'Henkel has everything ready, and we start in the morning. You seem to
be the only white man about here. Come and see us off, will you?' I
said yes; afterward it struck me as curious that he should not have
counted Henkel as a white man. He laughed and apologized for the touch
of sentiment. 'It's like plunging head first into a very deep sea,'
he explained, 'and one likes to have some one on the shore. You'll be
here when we come back?' And I said yes, I'd be either unloading on
the jetty or in the new cemetery by the canal. But he didn't smile.
His light Northern eyes were gravely considering this land where life
was held on a short lease, and he looked at me as if he were sorry for
me.

"I saw them off the next day. There were six or eight men of Henkel's,
loaded with food and trade-goods, and I saw that two of them were
sickening where they stood. I looked in Daurillac's brilliant young
face, and I hadn't the courage to say anything but, 'Have you plenty
of quinine?' He tapped a big tin case, and I nodded. 'And what are you
taking for the Indies?' I asked.

"He fairly bubbled over with laughter. 'You would never guess,
Monsieur, but we take clocks, little American clocks. The Indies of
the Mazzaron desire nothing but little clocks; they like the tick.'

"Their men had turned down one of the jungle paths. They shook hands
with me, and Scott met my eyes with his grave smile. 'Just drawing
breath for the plunge,' he said, with a glance at the forest beyond
the last white roof. Daurillac slipped his arm through Scott's, and
drew him after their slow-going _hombres_. At the bend of the path
they turned and waved to me--Scott with a quick lift of the hand. But
little Daurillac swept off his hat and stood half turned for a minute;
the sun splashed on his dark head, on his Frenchified belt and
puttees, on his white breeches, and on an outrageous pink shirt Henkel
seemed to have supplied him with. He looked suddenly brilliant and
unsubstantial, a light figure poised on the edge of the dark...