The afternoon slowly wore away; the tide came in across the flats; the
shadows lengthened hour by hour. But no breath of wind cooled our hot
faces. Neddie lay in a heap, moaning fitfully; Blodgett and Davie Paine
slept; Roger sat with his back to a tree and watched the incoming tide; the
cook stirred about uneasily and muttered to himself.
Coming over to me, he crouched at my side and spoke of Kipping. He was
savagely vindictive. "Hgh!" he grunted, "dat yeh crimp! He got dis nigger
once, yass, sah. Got me to dat boa'din' house what he was runner foh. Yass,
sah. Ah had one hunnerd dollahs in mah pants pocket, yass, sah. Nex'
mohnin' Ah woke up th'ee days lateh 'boa'd ship bound foh London. Ah ain'
got no hunnerd dollah in mah pants pocket. Dat yeh Kipping he didn't leave
me no pants pocket." The old black pulled open his shirt and revealed a
jagged scar on his great shoulder. "Look a' dat! Cap'n done dat--dat yeh
v'yage. Hgh!"
At dusk Neddie's moaning woke the sleepers, and we held a council in which
we debated plans for the future. Daring neither to venture abroad nor to
eat the native fruits and leaves, exhausted by exposure, perishing of
hunger and thirst, we faced a future that was dark indeed.
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