There was
no question of protest or false pride. Over he went. Rising and treading
water under the taffrail, and seeing the trader still some fathoms off,
he shook the wet from the rag of a beard with which long want of a razor
had blurred his peaked chin and gathered up the ends of the
conversation:
"No, Dole, you can't play in bad luck _f'rever_. One sure-fire hunch,
that's all. That makes _me_. When I get back to Broadway--"
A paddle blade narrowly missed his head. He dived.
The Dutchman told me more about him that evening. I dined at the
trader's house. He was a big-bodied tow-haired man who spoke English
with the accent of a east-coast Scot, drank like a Swede, and viewed
life through the eyes of a Spaniard--that is, he could be diabolical
without getting red in the face.
"No, my dear sir, that Signet shall not 'get back to Broadway.' Too many
have I seen. He is too tired. Quite too tired."
"But how in the world did he ever come here, Mynheer?"
"That is simple. This Signet got drunk in Papeete. He was on his way to
Australia with a pugilist. How should he be in a pugilist's company,
this crab? Because he plays a good game of pinochle--to keep the
pugilist's mind bright. At any event, the steamship stops at Tahiti.
This Signet gets drunk.
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