I should have been amazed, really, to find a
fellow named Signet housed in the Dutchman's private jail.
As a matter of fact, Signet was not in the jail.
When I went ashore in mid afternoon, wondering a little why no naked
biscuit-beggars or gin swallowers had swum out to bother me that day, I
found the trader of Taai sitting on his veranda, blowing puffs of smoke
from those fine Manila Club perfectos out into the sunshine. Beside him
leaned a shiny, twelve-gauge pump gun which he jostled with an elbow as
he bade me by word and gesture to make myself at home.
I'm quite certain I looked the fool. My eyes must have stuck out. Half a
dozen times I started to speak. With some vacant, fatuous syllable I
tried to break the ice. Strange as it sounds, I was never so embarrassed
in my life.--For the trader of Taai, the blatantly obvious proprietor of
the island's industry and overlord of its destinies--sitting there
before me now with a pump gun touching his elbow--was this fellow
Signet.
Till now I don't know precisely what had happened; that is to say, none
of the details of the act, horrid or heroic as they may have been. All I
seemed to have was a memory of the Dutchman's voice: "Why do you not
kill _me_? Ha-ha-ha! Then you could take my property." And again an echo
of his disdainful laughter at that fool, "Ha-ha-ha!" as, on some
midnight, he had kicked his dinner guest and his "coolie cotton pants"
out into the rain.
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