“Ha, ha, ha!  I don’t blame Tom,” interrupted the owner of a pearling schooner, who had come into the Roads for stores.  “Why, Mosey, there isn’t a mangy cannibal left in the whole of New Guinea that hasn’t got a cup and saucer of your providing.  You’ve flooded the market, savee?”

Jorgenson stood by, a skeleton at the gaming table.

“Because you are a Dutch spy,” he said, suddenly, in an awful tone.

The agent of the Sphinx mark jumped up in a sudden fury.

“Vat?  Vat?  Shentlemens, you all know me!” Not a muscle moved in the faces around.  “Know me,” he stammered with wet lips.  “Vat, funf year—­berfegtly acquaint—­grockery—­Verfluchte sponsher.  Ich?  Spy.  Vat for spy?  Vordamte English pedlars!”

The door slammed.  “Is that so?” asked a New England voice.  “Why don’t you let daylight into him?”

“Oh, we can’t do that here,” murmured one of the players.  “Your deal, Trench, let us get on.”

“Can’t you?” drawled the New England voice.  “You law-abiding, get-a-summons, act-of—­parliament lot of sons of Belial—­can’t you?  Now, look a-here, these Colt pistols I am selling—­” He took the pearler aside and could be heard talking earnestly in the corner.  “See—­you load—­and—­see?” There were rapid clicks.  “Simple, isn’t it?  And if any trouble—­say with your divers”—­click, click, click—­“Through and through—­like a sieve—­warranted to cure the worst kind of cussedness in any nigger.  Yes, siree!  A case of twenty-four or single specimens—­as you like.  No?  Shot-guns—­rifles?  No!  Waal, I guess you’re of no use to me, but I could do a deal with that Tom—­what d’ye call him?  Where d’ye catch him?  Everywhere—­eh?  Waal—­that’s nowhere.  But I shall find him some day—­yes, siree.”

Jorgenson, utterly disregarded, looked down dreamily at the falling cards.  “Spy—­I tell you,” he muttered to himself.  “If you want to know anything, ask me.”

When Lingard returned from Wajo—­after an uncommonly long absence—­everyone remarked a great change.  He was less talkative and not so noisy, he was still hospitable but his hospitality was less expansive, and the man who was never so happy as when discussing impossibly wild projects with half a dozen congenial spirits often showed a disinclination to meet his best friends.  In a word, he returned much less of a good fellow than he went away.  His visits to the Settlements were not less frequent, but much shorter; and when there he was always in a hurry to be gone.

During two years the brig had, in her way, as hard a life of it as the man.  Swift and trim she flitted amongst the islands of little known groups.  She could be descried afar from lonely headlands, a white speck travelling fast over the blue sea; the apathetic keepers of rare lighthouses dotting the great highway to the east came to know the cut of her topsails.  They saw her passing east, passing west.  They had faint glimpses of her flying with masts aslant