“What name you sing out alla time?” he demanded.

“Him fella my brother belong me,” was the answer.  “Him fella die too much.”

“You sing out, him fella brother belong you die too much,” the white man went on in threatening tones.  “I cross too much along you.  What name you sing out, eh?  You fat-head make um brother belong you die dose up too much.  You fella finish sing out, savvee?  You fella no finish sing out I make finish damn quick.”

He threatened the wailer with his fist, and the black cowered down, glaring at him with sullen eyes.

“Sing out no good little bit,” the white man went on, more gently.  “You no sing out.  You chase um fella fly.  Too much strong fella fly.  You catch water, washee brother belong you; washee plenty too much, bime bye brother belong you all right.  Jump!” he shouted fiercely at the end, his will penetrating the low intelligence of the black with dynamic force that made him jump to the task of brushing the loathsome swarms of flies away.

Again he rode out into the reeking heat.  He clutched the black’s neck tightly, and drew a long breath; but the dead air seemed to shrivel his lungs, and he dropped his head and dozed till the house was reached.  Every effort of will was torture, yet he was called upon continually to make efforts of will.  He gave the black he had ridden a nip of trade-gin.  Viaburi, the house-boy, brought him corrosive sublimate and water, and he took a thorough antiseptic wash.  He dosed himself with chlorodyne, took his own pulse, smoked a thermometer, and lay back on the couch with a suppressed groan.  It was mid-afternoon, and he had completed his third round that day.  He called the house-boy.

“Take um big fella look along Jessie,” he commanded.

The boy carried the long telescope out on the veranda, and searched the sea.

“One fella schooner long way little bit,” he announced.  “One fella Jessie.”

The white man gave a little gasp of delight.

“You make um Jessie, five sticks tobacco along you,” he said.

There was silence for a time, during which he waited with eager impatience.

“Maybe Jessie, maybe other fella schooner,” came the faltering admission.

The man wormed to the edge of the couch, and slipped off to the floor on his knees.  By means of a chair he drew himself to his feet.  Still clinging to the chair, supporting most of his weight on it, he shoved it to the door and out upon the veranda.  The sweat from the exertion streamed down his face and showed through the undershirt across his shoulders.  He managed to get into the chair, where he panted in a state of collapse.  In a few minutes he roused himself.  The boy held the end of the telescope against one of the veranda scantlings, while the man gazed through it at the sea.  At last he picked up the white sails of the schooner and studied them.