" Rimmle beamed.
"And so, Rimmle, you can believe possibly that Captain Blaise may yet
have his immortal hour, and cherish the hope none the less dearly in his
heart because his head, from out the experience of bitter years, tells
him that it can never be. And it may be that I go this time for neither
money nor drink, nor anything else in which traders ashore or aship
commonly bargain. But, hah, hah!"--he grinned suddenly, sardonically, at
the agent. "Think of us, Rimmle, sitting in the cabin of a West Coast
slaver and smuggler discoursing in this fashion--two gallant gentlemen
who trade in human misery."
Ten years since Captain Blaise had done any slave-running, and Rimmle,
who knew that, was slave-running still, and so he did not quite know how
to take this outburst.
Neither did I. Where Captain Blaise was sincere and where talking for
effect I could not have said; but surely he was moulding Rimmle like
jelly; and now looking out from under his eyebrow at Rimmle, but his
lips curved in a smile, he selected a cheroot and lit it, and lit
another for Rimmle, who now smiled too. And cheroot followed cheroot,
and story story, and drink drink, and the agent gurgled with joy of the
intimacy. "What adventures you have had, Captain, and"--he blew a cloud
to the cabin roof--"what stories!"
"Adventures? Stories?" Captain Blaise shrugged his shoulders.
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