over to the Dutch, I knew—­” he stammered as if the words could not come out, gave it up and sighed—­“Belarab’s father escaped with me,” he began again, quietly, “and joined the Padris in Sumatra.  He rose to be a great leader.  Belarab was a youth then.  Those were the times.  I ranged the coast—­and laughed at the cruisers; I saw every battle fought in the Battak country—­and I saw the Dutch run; I was at the taking of Singal and escaped.  I was the white man who advised the chiefs of Manangkabo.  There was a lot about me in the Dutch papers at the time.  They said I was a Frenchman turned Mohammedan—­” he swore a great oath, and, reeling against the guard-rail, panted, muttering curses on newspapers.

“Well, Belarab has the job in hand,” said Lingard, composedly.  “He is the chief man on the Shore of Refuge.  There are others, of course.  He has sent messages north and south.  We must have men.”

“All the devils unchained,” said Jorgenson.  “You have done it and now—­look out—­look out. . . .”

“Nothing can go wrong as far as I can see,” argued Lingard.  “They all know what’s to be done.  I’ve got them in hand.  You don’t think Belarab unsafe?  Do you?”

“Haven’t seen him for fifteen years—­but the whole thing’s unsafe,” growled Jorgenson.

“I tell you I’ve fixed it so that nothing can go wrong.  It would be better if I had a white man over there to look after things generally.  There is a good lot of stores and arms—­and Belarab would bear watching—­no doubt.  Are you in any want?” he added, putting his hand in his pocket.

“No, there’s plenty to eat in the house,” answered Jorgenson, curtly.  “Drop it,” he burst out.  “It would be better for you to jump overboard at once.  Look at me.  I came out a boy of eighteen.  I can speak English, I can speak Dutch, I can speak every cursed lingo of these islands—­I remember things that would make your hair stand on end—­but I have forgotten the language of my own country.  I’ve traded, I’ve fought, I never broke my word to white or native.  And, look at me.  If it hadn’t been for the girl I would have died in a ditch ten years ago.  Everything left me—­youth, money, strength, hope—­the very sleep.  But she stuck by the wreck.”

“That says a lot for her and something for you,” said Lingard, cheerily.

Jorgenson shook his head.

“That’s the worst of all,” he said with slow emphasis.  “That’s the end.  I came to them from the other side of the earth and they took me and—­see what they made of me.”

“What place do you belong to?” asked Lingard.

“Tromso,” groaned out Jorgenson; “I will never see snow again,” he sobbed out, his face in his hands.

Lingard looked at him in silence.

“Would you come with me?” he said.  “As I told you, I am in want of a—­”

“I would see you damned first!” broke out the other, savagely.  “I am an old white loafer, but you don’t get me to meddle in their infernal affairs.  They have a devil of their own—­”