The white man ground his knuckles into the corners of his eyes,
emitting that snore final and querulous of a middle-aged man awakened
rudely. With a gesture brusque but flaccid he plucked aside the net
and peered around. The bales of cotton cloth, the beads, the brass
wire, the bottles of rum, had not been spirited away in the night. So
far so good. The faithful servant of his employers was now at liberty
to care for his own interests. He regarded himself, passing his hands
over his skin.
"Hi! Mahamo!" he shouted. "I've been eaten up."
The islander, with one sinuous motion, sprang from the ground, through
the mouth of the hut. Then, after a glance, he threw high his hands in
thanks to such good and evil spirits as had charge of his concerns. In
a tone half of reproach, half of apology, he murmured--
"You white men sometimes say strange things that deceive the heart."
"Reach me that ammonia bottle, d'you hear?" answered the white man.
"This is a pretty place you've brought me to!" He took a draught.
"Christmas Day, too! Of all the ---- But I suppose it seems all right
to you, you funny blackamoor, to be here on Christmas Day?"
"We are here on the day appointed, Mr. Williams. It is a feast-day of
your people?"
Mr. Williams had lain back, with closed eyes, on his mat.
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