He tried to get up when I came in, but that was hopeless; so he reached me a hand instead, and stumbled out some salutation.

“Papa’s (1) pretty full this morning,” observed Case.  “We’ve had an epidemic here; and Captain Randall takes gin for a prophylactic - don’t you, Papa?”

“Never took such a thing in my life!” cried the captain indignantly.  “Take gin for my health’s sake, Mr. Wha’s-ever-your-name — ’s a precautionary measure.”

“That’s all right, Papa,” said Case.  “But you’ll have to brace up.  There’s going to be a marriage — Mr. Wiltshire here is going to get spliced.”

The old man asked to whom.

“To Uma,” said Case.

“Uma!” cried the captain.  “Wha’s he want Uma for? ’s he come here for his health, anyway?  Wha’ ’n hell’s he want Uma for?”

“Dry up, Papa,” said Case. “’Tain’t you that’s to marry her.  I guess you’re not her godfather and godmother.  I guess Mr. Wiltshire’s going to please himself.”

With that he made an excuse to me that he must move about the marriage, and left me alone with the poor wretch that was his partner and (to speak truth) his gull.  Trade and station belonged both to Randall; Case and the negro were parasites; they crawled and fed upon him like the flies, he none the wiser.  Indeed, I have no harm to say of Billy Randall beyond the fact that my gorge rose at him, and the time I now passed in his company was like a nightmare.

The room was stifling hot and full of flies; for the house was dirty and low and small, and stood in a bad place, behind the village, in the borders of the bush, and sheltered from the trade.  The three men’s beds were on the floor, and a litter of pans and dishes.  There was no standing furniture; Randall, when he was violent, tearing it to laths.  There I sat and had a meal which was served us by Case’s wife; and there I was entertained all day by that remains of man, his tongue stumbling among low old jokes and long old stories, and his own wheezy laughter always ready, so that he had no sense of my depression.  He was nipping gin all the while.  Sometimes he fell asleep, and awoke again, whimpering and shivering, and every now and again he would ask me why I wanted to marry Uma.  “My friend,” I was telling myself all day, “you must not come to be an old gentleman like this.”

It might be four in the afternoon, perhaps, when the back door was thrust slowly open, and a strange old native woman crawled into the house almost on her belly.  She was swathed in black stuff to her heels; her hair was grey in swatches; her face was tattooed, which was not the practice in that island; her eyes big and bright and crazy.  These she fixed upon me with a rapt expression that I saw to be part acting.  She said no plain word, but smacked and mumbled with her lips, and hummed aloud, like a child over its Christmas pudding.  She came straight across the house, heading for me, and, as soon as she was alongside, caught up my hand and purred and crooned over it like a great cat.  From this she slipped into a kind of song.