When Marston woke in the morning his headache and languidness had gone. It looked as if the powder the mulatto had left had cured him, and although he did not find the laudanum and packet of drugs, he resolved he would not bother about their loss. In a day or two, small lots of rather valuable cargo began to arrive and one afternoon Marston and Wyndham lounged under the awning and watched the Krooboys transfer goods from a big canoe to the yacht. Four or five negroes from up river put the fiber packages in the hoisting slings.
The men worked slackly, for although the sun was hidden the heat was extreme. A yellow haze covered the sky, but the oily surface of the lagoon shimmered with subdued light. On the other side, the reflection of the mangroves floated motionless, without a leaf quivering. Dark shadow lurked in the caves under the high roots, and here and there the massed foliage was touched by dirty white. Marston thought the trees looked as if they were blighted by some foul disease. He hated the mangroves and the smell of mud that hung about the vessel.
"The tides are beginning to get higher," he said. "It will be a relief to leave this dismal spot and go to sea."
"Calling here has paid us," Wyndham rejoined."We are getting stuff for which dyers and chemists give high prices; stuff I wanted but hardly expected to obtain. In fact, I'll own your mysterious visitor has earned his dash. No doubt he'll turn up again and ask for it."
"D'you reckon he had much to do with our getting the goods?"
Wyndham shrugged. "I understand he promised you the articles you talked about, and they have arrived. If he comes again, I'd like to see him. Perhaps he could be persuaded to send us something else."
"He asked for you," said Marston, and wondered whether his remark was rash when he saw Wyndham was pondering. Although Bob felt he was perhaps illogical, he did not want Harry to persuade the fellow.
"I think you said his eyes were blue," Wyndham resumed presently. "Well, one does meet a mulatto with blue eyes now and then, and it's perhaps not important that the bottom of his feet was white——"
Wyndham stopped, for a splash of paddles broke the silence, and when a canoe stole out of the shadow across the lagoon Marston said. "We may learn something about him now. Here's your agent, Don Felix."
He thought Wyndham was going to reply, but he hesitated and then crossed the deck as the agent and another man came on board. Marston called the steward, who put a small table under the awning and brought out a bottle of choice liquor they had bought at the last port. The party sat down and Marston studied his guests. On the whole, he liked Don Felix and thought him honest. The fellow's greasy fat face was frank and his black eyes met one's glance squarely.For all that, he thought he did not look well; there was a hint of strain about him and his hand shook when he greedily drained his glass. The climate, however, was unhealthy, and Marston turned to their other guest.
Father Sebastian was white, although his skin was dark and wrinkled. He was very thin and his threadbare clothes were slack; his hair was white and his eyes were sunk. He looked about with a frank curiosity and Marston imagined it was long since he had been on board a ship and had met civilized white men.
By and by Don Felix began to talk about the cargo and declared that he was puzzled, because he had not received so large a quantity of valuable goods for some time.
"It looks as if the people in the bush were working," he remarked and added dryly: "They work when they are forced."
Marston told him about the mulatto's visit, and Don Felix's face got dark. He drained his glass and turning to Father Sebastian repeated Marston's story in awkward French.
"I do not like it," he said, "This foul Bat! I think he is plotting again."
Father Sebastian made a sign of agreement and addressed Marston, whose curiosity was obvious. He spoke slowly, as if it cost him an effort to remember words, but Marston thought his French was good.
"An evil man! He is called the Bat because he likes the dark. Moreover they talk about bats that drink human blood."
"If there are such creatures, why don't you kill them?" Marston asked and glanced at Wyndham.He was smoking a cigarette and looked rather bored, but Marston knew his friend and doubted.
"The Bat is hard to kill. Some have tried, but perhaps I may be luckier," Don Felix answered, and his fat, nervous fingers touched his Spanish knife. Then he shrugged. "All the same, it is possible he kills me!"
The others said nothing. Don Felix was rather theatrical, but Marston thought him strongly moved by anger or fear. By and by Don Felix went to the hatch and examined one or two of the packages the Krooboys were putting in the hold.
"What is this?" he asked. "These packages have a mark I know but I did not buy the goods."
"The shipper will, no doubt, come to you for payment and we'll engage to meet the bill," Wyndham replied. "The stuff is getting very scarce and ought to sell for a good price."
"No!" exclaimed Don Felix angrily. "I buy nothing with that mark! You must stop the boys loading the lot. Send it all back."
"Isn't this ridiculous?" Wyndham asked. "Why do you want us to refuse the goods?"
Don Felix sat down and gripped the arm of his chair hard. "The man whose mark that is is a friend of the Bat's," he said, and his voice got hoarse. "I do not know if the goods are his or the other's, but I will not buy the stuff. Bad luck would go with the money one earned by handling it."
He said something to Father Sebastian in rapid creole French and the priest turned to Wyndham.
"It is better that you send back this cargo," he remarked quietly. "Don Felix is an honest man. He has given you advice that may cost him much." Marston pondered, with his eyes on his guest. Father Sebastian was old and shabby; he had obviously lived long with his savage flock, but he was white. His glance was calm and thoughtful and he had a touch of dignity. Marston thought he knew much about human nature and could be trusted. Don Felix, however, got up and clenched his fist. It looked as if the company of the priest and the others had given him some resolve.
"What do I care about the cost?" he exclaimed in French. "I was afraid and I paid. Me, a good Catholic, I paid that these pigs might serve their devil! But it has gone on long, and now I stop. This dirty Bat will come between me and my employer; he leaves me out. Well, let it be so!" He paused and spread out his hand with a theatrical gesture that Marston thought was meant for the negroes in the canoe. "Now I fight. My trade is my blood. I will kill this Bat!"
Father Sebastian shook his head, but Don Felix turned to Wyndham and resumed in a defiant voice. "You will send back the packages? If not, you must get another agent."
"Very well," agreed Wyndham. "You can tell the boys to unload the goods you don't like."
He gave Don Felix a quick glance and Marston wondered whether he expected him to hesitate, but the mulatto went back to the hatch and gave his orders resolutely. Marston remembered that another lot of fiber packages had been stowed at the bottom of thehold before the agent arrived and were now probably out of sight. Wyndham however, said nothing about these and filled Father Sebastian's glass.
"Our friend is superstitious," he remarked. "You know something about Obeah, and Voodoo magic. I expect the men who teach the cult use cunning tricks. But how much is trickery?"
"Ah," said Father Sebastian, "Who can tell? There are powers that rule the dark. You know it is permitted when you have lived in the gloom. Perhaps Don Felix is superstitious, but he takes a hard path. It is the right path; I think he is brave." Then he paused and smiled. "I am old and have lived in this country long. There is much about Voodoo and other things that puzzles me; but this I know. They who walk in the light need fear no lasting hurt."
"Sometimes one's light gets dim," said Marston.
"That is when we stray into the shadow and our eyes are dull. The light burns steadily; it will not go out."
Don Felix came back from the hatch and stopped for dinner. When he and Father Sebastian had gone, Marston asked Wyndham: "What about the other lot of goods that was already in the hold?"
"Well?" said Wyndham. "Do you see any object for our returning the stuff? For that matter, I don't know to whom it ought to be returned."
Marston said the goods could wait at the village until the owner claimed payment. "We promised Don Felix we would not take this cargo," he added.
"You mean, I promised?" Wyndham rejoined. "My promise applied to the particular lot he grumbled about. Anyhow, I want the goods. We can sell them for a high price."
Marston admitted that the argument was plausible, although he doubted if it were ethically sound. Still he must not be fastidiously critical about his friend. He was rich and free from one kind of temptation; Harry was poor. Wyndham noted his hesitation and resumed:
"Our voyage is not a yachting excursion. We are frankly out for what we can earn, and I'm, so to speak, now on trial. I'm young and the head of a house that people knew was tottering when I took control. Chisholm and Flora's relations have reserved their judgment; they're willing to give me a fair chance, but wait to see what I can do. Well, you know my drawbacks and how much depends on my making good. In order to do so, I'll run all risks."
Marston thought there was a risk Wyndham did not see. Flora Chisholm was honest and proud. Her lover's success would not satisfy her if she disapproved the means he used. This, however, was an awkward subject and Marston owned that to imagine Harry would give her grounds for disapproving was taking much for granted. He let the matter go and began to talk about something else.
For all that, when Wyndham left him he lighted a fresh cigarette and mused. Harry was his friend, but he began to see he had got a habit of making allowances for him that he might not have made for others. Harry had a strange charm and individuality; somehow one could not judge him by conventional rules. Then Marston remembered that Mabel had lethim go in order that he might be Harry's protector, but the dangers he was to be guarded from were not physical. Marston understood this better now and doubted if he were clever enough for the job; Mabel did not mean him to be a hypercritical prig. Anyhow, he had undertaken the job and Mabel, perhaps rather foolishly, trusted him. He threw his cigarette away and went off to superintend the stowage of the cargo.
The moon was getting small and the tides were higher when, one evening, a messenger asked them to come to the village. They went up river in the mist, and Marston felt languid and dejected. The day had been very hot and it was not much cooler at dark. The stagnant air was hard to breathe, there was something daunting in the silence, and the splash of paddles sounded harshly loud. When they landed they found Don Felix alone in his house except for a half-breed woman and Father Sebastian. He lay in a fiber hammock and Marston saw he was very ill. His black eyes were half shut, his face was a livid color and wet with clammy sweat.
The room was brightly lighted and the half-breed woman sat on the ground in a limp, huddled pose, with a black shawl hiding her shoulders and head. She did not move when the others came in, but Don Felix's glance hinted at relief, and Father Sebastian indicated two American bent-wood chairs that looked strangely out of harmony with the mud walls and floor.
"If we had known you were ill, we would have brought our medicine chest," Marston said. "What is the matter?"
"Who knows?" said Don Felix, dully, and Marstonimagined the Castilian rejoinder meant his question admitted of no reply. "I will not live until the morning, but I have lived longer than I sometimes thought. It does not matter now the good father and my friends have come. I am no more afraid."
Marston was puzzled; somehow Don Felix looked afraid. The first part of his statement was easier to understand, because Marston had learned in Africa that negroes and uncivilized half-breeds slip easily out of life and often seem to know when theirs will end. But if Don Felix was not afraid to go, what did he fear?
"Is there nobody about? Where are the working boys?" Wyndham asked.
"They have gone; theyknow," Don Felix replied, and Marston felt half daunted as he asked himself; What did the boys know? "But you will stay?" the other went on anxiously.
"Of course," said Wyndham in a quiet voice.
Father Sebastian looked up, as if to thank him, and Marston saw Harry had taken the proper line. He felt there was no use in trying to persuade Don Felix he was not very ill. It was significant that the priest had not tried.
"Now we will talk a little," Don Felix said to Wyndham. "There is some business to talk about."
Wyndham glanced at Father Sebastian, who made a sign of permission, and then got up and went to the door with Marston. They sat down on a bench outside and a beam of light and the dull voices of the others came through the door. Marston did not hear the woman; she had not spoken at all, but sat motionless and huddled. He had not seen her face and neverknew what she was like. All was quiet in the village, and outside the feeble beam the gloom was strangely deep. Marston sympathized with Don Felix's liking for plenty of light.
"What has caused his illness?" he asked.
"Poison, I think," Father Sebastian replied. "Our friend is a good Catholic, but he is half persuaded it is something else."
"The other thing's ridiculous, though I suppose they claim to use magic in the bush. But you ought to know something about native poisons."
"I know many, but Don Felix's symptoms are strange," said Father Sebastian, quietly.
Marston asked him about the symptoms and carefully noted his answers. Then he remarked: "I don't altogether understand why the boys left him."
"They were afraid. In this country, it is rash to help a victim of Voodoo."
"But they are your people; I mean, they belong to your flock."
"They are human and one must not expect too much from men who have long walked in the gloom. The old gods are powerful."
"The Obeah gods are devils!" Marston declared with an anger that rather surprised himself.
Father Sebastian glanced at the surrounding dark, in which blurred trees vaguely loomed.
"It is possible there are devils yonder. Things are done they would approve," he remarked quietly.
"I understand the Bat is Don Felix's enemy. Do you think he poisoned him?"
"I do not know. Perhaps we shall never know. In this country, many people are poisoned."
Marston clenched his fist. "Don Felix is Wyndhams' agent and I'm a partner in the house. If I find out who poisoned him, I'll see the fellow is held accountable."
He stopped, for Wyndham came to the door, beckoning the priest.
"He wants you," he said, and they went in.
Marston long remembered the next hour or two. At first Don Felix was shaken by spasms of pain and groaned, but was silent afterwards. His eyes were dull and half shut, and when they opened wider they turned apprehensively to the open door. Sometimes he glanced about the room and Marston thought he took courage when he saw Father Sebastian sitting near his hammock and Wyndham in the background. Yet he was obviously afraid and his fear was disturbing.
For the most part all was very quiet, but sometimes there were noises that jarred Marston's nerves. Although the night was calm, leaves rustled in the dark and one heard sounds like the stealthy tread of naked feet. Marston fancied shadows lurked about the edge of the beam from the door and found it hard to persuade himself he was deceived, although he knew nobody was there. For a minute or two moisture splashed outside, as if somebody had struck a branch and shaken down big drops. The noise stopped and Marston felt the silence worse.
Now and then he glanced at Wyndham. The latter did not move and looked straight in front, but his quietness was significant and his mouth was firm. Marston imagined he bore some strain, but it was often hard to tell what Harry felt and thought. Atlength, Don Felix moved his hand awkwardly, as if he felt for something to which he could cling, and the slack movement did not stop until he felt Father Sebastian's grasp. His haunted look was plainer, although he was now too weak to glance at the door. It jarred Marston strangely, and getting up he went out.
Half-an-hour afterwards there was a wild cry in the house and Marston shivered. It was the woman's voice and he knew why she had cried out. Then Wyndham came to the door, and standing with his back against the light, looked about for his comrade.
"We need not stay now," he said. "He was calm at the last and had all the consolation Father Sebastian could give him. An honest man, and brave, I think, believing what it's obvious he did believe!"
"He trusted you," Marston remarked, meaningly.
"It's possible he found our being about some help. We stayed while we were needed."
"That is not what I mean," Marston rejoined. "If ever I saw a man fight with fear, I watched the horrible battle to-night! The fellow was your agent and somebody who destroyed his body sent an unthinkable horror to torment his mind. The thing's devilish! What are you going to do about it?"
"What can I do?" said Wyndham. "I have nothing to go upon."
Marston made a sign of agreement, but his face was very stern. "Some day, perhaps, we'll find out who's accountable. I mean to try."
Wyndham said nothing and they went back to the canoe.
Soon after Don Felix was buried two strangers visited the schooner. One was white but so burned by the sun and worn by the climate that he looked like a native. Peters was agent for a Hamburg merchant house with a factory on a neighboring lagoon, and told Wyndham he had come because he seldom met a white man. The other was a government officer and stated, apologetically, that his business was to make a few inquiries about Don Felix's death. His skin was nearly white, but his coarse lips and short, curling hair indicated a strain of negro blood.
Marston knew something about the officials who held small posts on the Caribbean coast. For the most part, they were mulattos, paid low wages and willing to augment the latter by presents and bribes. As a rule, he had found them good-humored and indolent, and he imagined Don Ramon Larrinaga would be satisfied with a few particulars and a little money. There was, he thought, no use in trying to put him on the track of the unknown poisoner. He let Wyndham take the man to the cabin and sat under the awning on deck with Peters, for whom he opened a bottle of vermouth.
Peters knew much about the country and told him some rather curious stories. He looked shriveled and desiccated, but his glance was keen and Marstonimagined he was very shrewd. Marston, however, did not study him much; it was enough that he was an amusing companion while Wyndham was occupied. By-and-by the latter opened the cabin scuttle and beckoned.
"You have some paper money, Bob. Lend me a few bills," he said.
Marston asked the sum he wanted and was surprised when Wyndham told him.
"Is it necessary to give him so much?" he asked.
"Perhaps it's advisable. We'll soon be ready for sea and I expect the fellow could keep us here while he made fresh inquiries and wrote reports. He's polite, but he rather hinted something like that. Of course, he has no notion of really finding out why Don Felix died."
"We want to find out," Marston rejoined.
Wyndham smiled. "That's another thing; the government officials don't want to bother. If we knew who was accountable, it would be hard to get them to move. However, Don Ramon is waiting——"
Marston took out his wallet and after giving Wyndham some money went back to Peters, whose eyes twinkled.
"Your partner knows the customs of the country," he remarked. "On the whole, it pays to be generous. In a climate like this, it's prudent to save oneself unnecessary trouble."
"We don't want to avoid trouble," Marston replied. "If I was persuaded our agent was poisoned and could get on the poisoner's track, I'd use some energy to follow it up."
Peters shrugged. "You can do nothing; better letit rest. In the fever swamps, men who are well one day often die the next. It is possible they have an enemy in the bush, but the law does not reach up yonder. Sickness is common and human life is cheap."
They talked about something else until Wyndham and Larrinaga came on the deck. The latter bowed to Marston when his canoe was paddled to the gangway.
"I thank you and your partner, señor," he said. "If I can be of help, remember I am your servant."
"It was nothing," Marston replied. "I expect Señor Wyndham has told you all we know, but if you can find out anything important, you'll earn our gratitude. The man who tells me why Don Felix died can count on his reward."
Peters gave him a curious glance and smiled. "After all, the reward may perhaps be claimed. It is not likely, I admit, but things one does not look for sometimes happen."
He got into the canoe and when the negroes paddled off Marston leaned against the rail.
"I suppose we need expect nothing from Larrinaga," he remarked. "How much did you tell him?"
"All I thought it useful for him to know," said Wyndham, rather dryly. "He's a common type; lazy and greedy. Now he's got his bribe, I don't suppose he'll bother us. What did you think about the other?"
"I didn't study him much. Amusing fellow, but you get a hint of force. I imagine he's clever and a man who can hold on. Anyhow, he doesn't matter, since it's improbable we'll see him again. We'll havethe holds full in a day or two and I've had enough of the lagoon."
"All the same, I'm rather afraid we can't get away just yet."
Marston began to grumble, but Wyndham smiled.
"There are things to straighten out and now we have no agent I may be needed, but it won't be necessary for you to stay. In fact, I'd like you to take the schooner to the next port and transship the cargo. Then you could come back for me and the extra load I half expect, but I'll know more when I've been to the village, and we'll talk about this again."
Wyndham started for the village next day, and when it was getting dark Marston lounged on deck looking out for the boat. Some of the crew had gone with Wyndham, the rest were in the forecastle, and except for the cook at the galley door Marston had the deck to himself. The yacht was slowly lifting with the tide, which spread across the mud banks in the lagoon. Thin mist drifted about the mangroves and there was not a breath of wind. The water glimmered with faint reflections but in a few minutes it would be dark.
Presently Marston, looking over the rail, imagined there was somebody behind him on the deck. For a moment or two, however, he did not turn. He had heard no step and had recently felt himself highly strung. It looked as if Don Felix's death had given him a jar, but he was not going to indulge his shaken nerves. Still he felt there was somebody about and he slowly and deliberately looked round. The mulatto who had visited him before squatted on the deck, as if he had been there some time. Marston thought hesaw amusement in his wrinkled face and his anger arose.
"Cappy Wyndham lib for on board?" the old fellow asked.
"He is not on board," said Marston roughly. "What do you want?"
"You done get them cargo?"
"We did. I don't know if you had much to do with it, but I suppose you expect your dash. What would you like? Money?"
The other shook his head. "Money no good. My friend sick too much. You dash me some medicine."
Marston remembered the packet of drugs and found it needful to use some control. He did not know if the mulatto was the Bat or not, but on the whole thought he was and the horror of his watch at Don Felix's house was fresh. Yet he had nothing to go upon and would not be justified in throwing the fellow overboard. The other watched him with bloodshot eyes, and although his face was inscrutable, Marston began to feel uneasy. He wondered whether the fellow was something of a hypnotist, for he got a hint of force; force that he thought malevolent. Looking forward along the deck, he imagined he saw the cook at the galley door, but the indistinct figure vanished and Marston felt it was significant that the negro had gone inside. Then he braced himself and looked back.
"I will not give you medicine, but since we did get the cargo, perhaps you deserve something," he said. "Wait a minute."
Going to the cabin, he opened a locker in which they had put a quantity of African trade goods. The stuff was rubbish, made to please the negro's eye; brass,jewelry, cheap scent, colored flannel jackets, and frail umbrellas. Marston picked up as much as he could carry and was conscious of rather dry amusement as he climbed the ladder. His visitor had obviously learned English in West Africa and he was going to give him the usual African dash, but he knew the old fellow had no use for the stuff. It was like giving a philosopher a child's toy.
"There you are!" said Marston, throwing down the articles. "Now get off!"
"I lib for see Cappy Wyndham," the other objected.
"Get off the ship," said Marston. "Don't come back!"
He wondered how the man would go. There was no canoe about and the water round the vessel was three or four feet deep; she lay obliquely to the beach. It was ridiculous to imagine the other had vanished on his last visit, but Marston had not seen how he went. Now, however, he meant to watch.
The mulatto picked up the load of rubbish and went forward along the deck. He jumped on the end of the bowsprit and Marston smiled, for it looked as if he could not use his tricks when one kept one's eye on him. Balancing himself cautiously, he walked along the spar and melted in the dark. But in a few moments there was a splash and Marston knew he had dropped from the bowsprit's end into shallow water. Somehow this was soothing and he went to the cabin. In an hour or two Wyndham returned and when they lighted their pipes after supper Marston remarked:
"The old fellow Don Felix imagined was the Bat turned up again."
"Ah," said Wyndham, who looked interested."Don Felix hadn't seen him; we don't know he is the Bat."
"Father Sebastian agreed that he was, and I haven't much doubt. He said the man was evil and I think evil's the proper word. He gives me a strange nervous shrinking. Have you felt a kind of nausea when you looked at something repulsive? Well, I feel like that when he's about."
"As a rule, you don't let your imagination carry you away," Wyndham remarked. "I expect the heat and the dismal surroundings account for much."
"Anyhow, I gave him a dash and ordered him off the boat."
Wyndham glanced up rather sharply. "Why? We have got some valuable goods, and although we'll have to pay their owners, it looks as if the old fellow was useful."
"I don't want any goods he sends," Marston rejoined. "My notion is they're better left alone. Then I'm a partner, and although I haven't meddled much, I felt I ought to use my power."
"Oh, well," said Wyndham. "You are a partner, I suppose we must let it go."
They talked about something else and next evening Marston took the schooner's dinghy and rowed down the lagoon. He had heard curlew whistle in the dark and wondered whether the birds were as wild as they are in England. For a time he followed the edge of the mangroves, where water dripped from the arched roots, and amphibious things splashed in the muddy caves; and then skirted a sloppy bank the tide flowed across. Now and then he saw a curlew but did not get a shot, and by and by he put down the oars. Thedamp heat was enervating and he rested and looked about.
It would soon be dark and the mangroves cut in a straight black line against a fading orange glow. The land-breeze began to shake the leaves and now and then a pale branch moved. All was very quiet but for the dull rumble of the surf outside. Marston felt languid and vaguely disturbed. There was something about Wyndham that puzzled him. When they were at sea he did not want a better friend, but it was different when they went ashore to trade. Well, he had come to look after Harry and now understood better why Mabel had let him go. Perhaps Harry really needed to be looked after. Marston was staunch, but he knew Mabel had not altogether trusted his comrade.
There was another thing; he must soon sail the schooner to the next port and he wanted to go, but Harry meant to stay. Marston did not like this, although he could think of no logical objection. The mulatto's visits bothered him. The fellow had asked for Wyndham and somehow Marston would sooner they did not meet. Perhaps the thing was ridiculous, but he felt like that.
It got dark and although there was no obvious reason for his return he felt he ought to get back to the yacht. Recently he had felt highly strung. This was, no doubt, the consequence of pottering about the unhealthy swamps, but he must control his illogical impulses and he lighted his pipe while he let the dinghy drift with the tide.
She floated quietly up the lagoon and presently he sawColumbine's lights in the mist. Pulling a few languid strokes, he let the boat drift again until thevessel's dark side was close ahead. Then he put out his hand and seized a rope. He wore rubber boots, because he had thought he might wade across the mud, and made no noise when he stepped down from the rail. There was nobody on deck, but a light shone in the cabin and when he went aft he heard voices. The skylight was open and one of the voices was the old mulatto's.
Marston stopped abruptly. He wanted to go down and turn out the fellow, but doubted if he would be justified, although he was Wyndham's partner. Somehow it was unthinkable the brute and his comrade should engage in quiet talk. For all that, he did not go, and turning back a few yards stopped again. He must not be a fool, and no doubt the fellow had come to talk about some goods his friends in the bush could supply. Marston did not want the goods, but forced himself to wait.
By and by a shadowy figure came out from the cabin hatch. It made no noise and Marston would not have seen it had not the indistinct black object for a moment cut against the light. Outside the beam from the open hatch all was misty and dark. Still Marston thought the fellow knew he was there, because he vanished as if he had gone behind the mast. Marston did not bother about him and went down to the cabin.
There was liquor on the table and Wyndham had obviously just drained the glass he held. His hand shook as he put it down, his face was rather white, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead. It looked as if he had got a knock, although Marston knew Harry's nerve was good.
"I couldn't get near the curlew, so I came back," he remarked, awkwardly.
Wyndham looked up, with an obvious effort for calm. "Oh, well, since you are here, you might turn out the boys and heave up the slack cable."
Marston noted that Wyndham's voice was hoarse, but thought it better to conquer his curiosity. Harry might give him his confidence later, and in the meantime to heave the cable taut would obviate their bringing the boys up again. The tide was rising and they wanted to float the schooner off the mud. He went forward to call the crew and the clank of the windlass and rattle of chain were soothing, since they indicated thatColumbinewas ready for sea. Marston owned that he would be glad to get away from the lagoon. He was occupied for some time and when he went back to the cabin Wyndham looked calm.
"We'll keep her off the beach after this," he said. "Sorry you didn't get a shot. The curlew seem as wild as they are at home."
"I don't want her to take the beach again," Marston remarked. "When do we sail?"
"You'll sail as soon as the pilot thinks there's water enough on the bar. He comes to-morrow."
"But you mean to stay?"
"I must stay," said Wyndham. "We haven't an agent and I'm on the track of some business I can't neglect."
Marston saw there was no use in urging his comrade to go. Harry's mouth was ominously firm. He wondered whether Harry would tell him what the mulatto had talked about, but he did not and soon after supper they went to bed.
The new moon shone in a clear sky and the tide was nearly full. Puffs of warm land-breeze shook the mangroves and drove small ripples againstColumbine's side. She rode to the flood stream, ready for sea, and the clank of her windlass rolled across the swamps. The negro crew were shortening cable and sang as they hove at the levers.
Wyndham was talking to Peters, who had arrived in the afternoon, and Marston, standing near them, frowned. He was annoyed that Peters had come, because he had wanted to talk to Wyndham and after the other's arrival this was impossible. It was unlucky he had put it off, but he did not see why Harry had urged the fellow to stay and go back to the village with him when the schooner sailed. Marston felt rather hurt, since it almost looked as if Harry had kept Peters in order to prevent him trying to satisfy his curiosity.
Marston was curious. The old mulatto had told Harry something that had given him a bad jar; Bob could not forget his comrade's strained look when he entered the cabin, and he had found no clew to the puzzle. It was a relief to go to sea, but the satisfaction he had expected to get was dulled. He felt as if he were running away and leaving his partner when the latter needed him. Yet somebody must go and Harry would not.
"Short up, sah!" a Krooboy shouted when the windlass stopped. The pilot gave an order, and the foresail began to rise with a rattle of blocks. The canvas flapped and swelled, and Marston went forward.
"Break out the anchor," he said. "Hoist the inner jib."
Dark figures rose and fell with the windlass-bars; slowly at first, then faster, as with a harsh clank the chain ran through the pipe. Marston had generally found the noise inspiriting. It hinted at adventure on the open sea, but it did not move him now; he was not leaving the lagoon for good. Yet he was soothed whenColumbinebegan to move. After lying on the mud, he liked to feel her lift as she met the gentle swell the tide brought in, and hear the ripple splash about her bows. The mangroves stole past, a gap opened in the trees, and a faintly-glittering track led out to sea.
"Hoist the mainsail," said the pilot, and the splash of ripples was louder when the dark canvas rose.
She drove out with the land-breeze and met the rollers on the bar. They were not high and hardly broke, only one here and there melting into foam. She lurched across with dry decks, and when the leadsman got deeper water the pilot brought her round and pulled up his canoe. Marston went to the gangway with Wyndham and Peters, and the latter laughed as he gave him his hand.
"I don't know if we'll meet again, but it's possible," he said. "You offered a good reward for some information not long since. I wonder whether you were rash."
"The offer stands," Marston replied. "The man who tells me all about our agent's death will find me generous."
"Oh, well," said Peters. "I can't state that I expect to claim the reward, but after all I might. Then I hope we'll both be satisfied."
Marston let him go. He would have given much for ten minutes' frank talk with Wyndham, but this was impossible. The pilot was waiting and the yacht drifting near a dangerous shoal. He resigned himself and gave his comrade his hand.
"Run no risks and take care of yourself until I come back," he said.
"Good luck!" said Wyndham and jumped into the canoe.
Marston signed to the steersman, the sails filled, and the canoe dropped astern.Columbinegathered speed and listed down, throwing spray about while the water foamed below her lee rail. Small white waves rolled down the glittering track ahead and Marston's mood got lighter. After all, it was a relief to put to sea; the salt wind was tonic and blew morbid thoughts away. It was bracing to grapple with breaking waves and savage squalls.
He looked astern. The canoe had vanished and a misty line indicated the land. Marston was conscious of a strange repugnance as he watched it fade. Sickness lurked in the steamy forest, where the gloom was touched by mystery and something of horror. For a time, he had done with it, and he would come back strengthened and invigorated by the change.
He gave the helmsman the course, and going to the cabin, opened a tin box that held letters for Englandand manifests of cargo. He must copy these out on the bills of lading when he transshipped the goods and as he studied the lists he felt some surprise.Columbinedid not carry much but her freight was valuable. Some had been put on board without his knowing and he thought it strange Wyndham had not talked about its cost. For example, there were small pearls. One found pearls at places on the Caribbean, but the fisheries were jealously guarded and none were near the lagoon. Then there was a packet of ambergris and Marston knew ambergris was worth much. Don Felix had said nothing about this curious stuff, which the cachalot whales throw up, and Marston wondered where Wyndham had got it.
The voyage was obviously going to pay, but the strange thing was, their cargo for the most part had come down after the agent died. To some extent this bore out Marston's conclusion that the old mulatto was the Bat and had power over Don Felix's uncivilized customers. Marston began to muse about the fellow. He had power; one felt it, although he was old and repulsive. Something indicated that he had inherited from his white ancestors qualities not often found in half-breeds. Marston began to see that this was partly why the fellow repelled him; one got a hint of intelligence put to a base use.
The matter was not important, and he pondered about his finding Wyndham and the other in the cabin. Harry was badly shaken, although Marston knew his pluck. Something very strange and startling was needed to drive the blood from his face and bring the sweat to his forehead. All the same, it was ridiculous to imagine the mulatto had frightened him. The oldfellow was clever and no doubt claimed to be a magician in the bush, but Harry was not the man to be cheated by his tricks. After a time, Marston gave it up and went on deck.
Columbineleaned over to the steady breeze. The sea was flecked with white and a spray shower leaped about her bows. A foaming wake trailed behind her and Marston's heart got light as he heard the shrouds hum and felt her measured swing. He liked the sense of speed and buoyancy, the feeling that he had control of straining wood and sail. To fight the sudden wild Northers and keep her off reefs and shoals was a man's job, but it was a job he knew. He did not know the other that Mabel had given him, and often felt puzzled. Yet he had undertaken it and meant to make good. By-and-by he went down to the cabin and to bed.
After a quick run he reached port, transacted some business, shipped his cargo home by steamer, and then returned to the lagoon, where he found Wyndham had another load ready. On the night after his arrival they sat in the cabin, talking, and although Wyndham said nothing about the mulatto he was frank. Indeed, Marston smiled when he remembered the doubts with which he had left his comrade. All the same, he thought he noted something about Harry he had not known before.
"You will sail again as soon as we can load the cargo, but for another port," Wyndham said. "We have, so to speak, found a treasure house and want to keep it dark. If other folks get to know, the treasure will soon be picked up. Anybody can buy a pretty good chart of the coast for a few shillings, and we havebeen lucky so far, largely because the shoals keep steamers out."
"The thing will be known sometime," Marston remarked.
"Of course, but I hope to get the most part of the stuff that's worth getting before our rivals come in."
"After that you'll let this branch of the business go?"
"I think not," Wyndham replied. "If I can find a good agent, we ought to hold our ground in the regular trade, although the profits will not be large."
"But you, yourself, don't mean to stay very long?"
"No," said Wyndham. "When I get the best of the produce that seems to have been piling up and appoint our agent, I'll willingly clear out; but I don't expect to do so for three or four months. I've got my chance now and must seize it."
"Three months is a long time to stay at the lagoon. Besides, who will look after the business at home?"
"My manager is pretty capable, though he's young and recently promoted. Would you like to go?"
Marston laughed. "I'm not a business man. Would you trust me?"
"I don't think it would be rash. You're a careful fellow, Bob, and it begins to look as if you had talents you didn't know. You have transacted our business like a shipping clerk."
For a moment or two Marston hesitated. Wyndham looked amused and Bob admitted that the situation had a touch of humor. He meant to stay at a place for which he had a strange, superstitious dislike,in order to help his comrade, who would sooner be left alone.
"I may go by-and-by, but I won't go yet," he replied.
They let the matter drop and in the morning Wyndham went up the creek in the boat. He stated, rather vaguely, that he must arrange about some cargo and it was three or four days before he returned. Then Marston sailed with another load for a different port, and the French creole who shipped the goods to England was frankly surprised by their value. Indeed, his remarks indicated that the freight was worth much more than Marston had thought. The latter returned to the lagoon, satisfied in one way, but disturbed in another, and did not see much of his comrade.
Wyndham often left the vessel, and although he did not tell Marston where he went, the loaded canoes that came down the creek hinted that he was usefully engaged. It was plain that the business was remarkably profitable, but Marston imagined Wyndham was overdoing the thing. He began to look worn and was sometimes moody, for a white man cannot strain brain and body hard in the tropic swamps.
Marston got uneasy about him, but to some extent sympathized. They could not long enjoy their monopoly, rivals would soon be attracted to the lagoon, and Harry was justified in seizing his chance. He had not thought Harry greedy, but there was much at stake; Chisholm's approval, Harry's business standing, and his marriage to Flora. Marston could understand his comrade's running heavy risks for a girl like that.
Still he was bothered because he did not know all the risks; it was possible that Harry was being driven far by his very natural ambition, but there were lengths to which one ought not to go.
Another thing puzzled Marston. Don Felix had known the negroes and had, moreover, negro blood in his veins, but the trade had not extended until he was dead. It was strange the efforts of a white man and a stranger had led to the sudden extension. Harry had obviously qualities and knowledge that had not marked the other. But what were the qualities, and what did he know? Although Marston sometimes brooded over this, he saw no light.
One evening he sat in the cabin and studied their trading accounts while Wyndham smoked. It was very hot and Marston's face and hands were wet with sweat and his eyes were dazzled. Flies hovered about the light and now and then a beetle struck the mosquito gauze in the skylight. Presently Marston put down his pen and frowned.
"My brain's dull to-night," he said. "I ought to be satisfied with the results of our venture, but there are things I don't see quite plain. For example, we have got a lot of stuff for which we don't seem to have paid."
"You are supercargo," Wyndham rejoined. "The accounts are yours and they're remarkably accurate. All we have got is properly charged against us."
"That is so; I have used your figures. All the same, we haven't handed over much money."
"The business is largely done by barter."
"Of course," said Marston, with a touch of impatience. "We haven't delivered much goods against the account."
"The goods will be delivered. Our customers haven't yet stated the articles they want."
"This means they trust us until we can bring the stuff from England or America? In fact, they're willing to trust us for some time?"
"It looks like that," said Wyndham and laughed. "Are you puzzled about it, Bob? After all, Wyndhams' has long traded here and the house's reputation is obviously pretty good."
"But I understand your agents never got such stuff as we have got."
"They were agents and we are principals; I expect that accounts for something," Wyndham replied with a twinkle. "Besides, Wyndhams' never had a supercargo like you."
Marston frowned and tried to think of some other matters that had excited his curiosity, but could not make the effort, and Wyndham put a bottle and glasses on the table.
"Shut the books and I'll mix a cocktail," he said. "You're working too hard and it's very hot."
They went to bed soon afterwards and when he awoke Marston's head ached and he did not get up. He thought he had a dose of fever and felt strangely annoyed. Somehow he had not expected to get fever; he had thought Harry might get it, and to be kept in his bunk was a complication he had not reckoned on. Although Wyndham dosed him as the medical book directed, the fever did not abate. For some days he tossed about in his narrow bunk with a throbbing headand pain in his limbs, and then lay half-conscious in limp exhaustion. He had strange dreams and long remembered ones; indeed, he sometimes doubted if it were all a dream.
He imagined he was back at the factory on the African river and Wyndham's uncle, the man who vanished, was in the big mildewed room. Marston saw him come out of his door and stand for a moment listening, with his face touched by the moonlight; and then run forward and stop by the body on the boards. The dream was horribly vivid and real, but the big room got hazy and melted, as it were, intoColumbine's cabin.
Marston saw the lamp, turned low, hang at an angle to the beams, and the charts and cargo books in the net rack. He smelt the mud and heard the ripples splash against the schooner's side. Somebody sat in front of the table and when the man looked up he saw it was Rupert Wyndham. Marston knew him because he had seen his portrait, but his hair had gone white and his skin very dark. In fact, he did not look like a white man. He got up and his face and bent figure melted as the room at the factory had melted, but very slowly got distinct again and Marston thrilled with repulsion and horror. Rupert Wyndham had changed to the old mulatto.
His naked feet made no noise as he crossed the floor and Marston struggled to get up but could not. His lips refused to move when he tried to call for help; the old fellow had fixed his bloodshot eyes on him and he felt powerless. The mulatto stopped by his bunk, holding out a glass, and Marston knew he meant to poison him. He resolved he would not drink,but felt he must. There was something in the fellow's steady look that broke his resistance and for a few moments he fought a horrible battle against a strange conquering force. Then he took the glass and drained it, and the mulatto melted away. He did not vanish. This implied suddenness; he faded out of the cabin by imperceptible degrees.
Marston knew no more and awoke in daylight, haunted by the dream. He was surprised to feel he was not worse; indeed, his head did not ache and although he was very weak the pain in his limbs had gone. His throat was parched and there was a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had swallowed the draught he dreamed about. Wyndham sat on the locker and got up when he saw Marston was awake.
"You look different. I think you have seen the worst," he said. "I've been bothered about you, Bob."
Marston smiled. He did not want to talk and the relief he saw in his comrade's face was soothing. He went to sleep again and it was dark when he awoke. He did not dream that night and in a few days got, rather shakily, out of his bunk. Wyndham put some cushions for him on the locker and they began to talk.
"The boat's full to the hatches and we go to sea to-morrow," Wyndham said. "If the wind keeps fair, I expect to put you on board the Spanish liner for the Canaries in three or four days. You'll transfer to a homeward Cape boat when you arrive."
"But I don't want to go home yet," Marston objected.
"You are going all the same," Wyndham declared."You have been very ill and a sick man hasn't much chance in this miasmatic air. There's no use in arguing; you have got to go."
Marston grumbled, but they sailed with the next high tide, and when they made the port where the Spanish steamer lay he let Wyndham help him on board.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Marston sat by a window in an English country house. His pose was limp and his face was thin, for the fever had shaken him, but he felt his strength coming back. Outside, bare trees shook their branches in a fresh west wind, and a white belt of surf crept across the shining sands in the broad estuary. On the other side, the Welsh hills rose against the sunset in a smooth black line.
Marston felt pleasantly languid and altogether satisfied. Mabel had put a cushion under his head and given him a footstool. It was soothing to be taken care of by one whom one loved, and after the glare of the Caribbean and the gloom of the swamps, the soft colors and changing lights of the English landscape rested his eyes. For all that, they did not wander long from Mabel, who sat close by, quietly pondering. With her yellow hair and delicate pink skin she looked very English, and all that was English had an extra charm for Marston. He liked her thoughtful calm. Mabel was normal; she, so to speak, walked in the light, and the extravagant imaginings he had indulged at the lagoon vanished when she was about.
Yet he had been forced to remember much, for Chisholm and Flora had come to hear his story, andhe had felt he must make them understand in order to do his comrade justice. Flora's grateful glance and the sparkle in Chisholm's eyes hinted that he had not altogether failed.
"It's a moving tale; I felt I was young again," Chisholm remarked when Marston stopped. "A daring voyage for a craft as old asColumbineand Harry obviously handled her well. Some folks declare we're decadent, but my notion is, a race that loves the sea can't lose its vigor, and the spirit that sent out the old adventurers is living yet. Well, I wish I had been with you!" He paused with an apologetic smile and turned to Flora. "It's plain that Harry has qualities."
"He has a good partner," Flora replied and gave Marston a friendly nod. "I mean that, Bob."
"The persistence of the family type is a curious thing," Chisholm resumed. "In old times, Wyndhams' sent out slavers and privateers, and although Harry's modern, he's taking the path his ancestors trod. Well, in a sense, he's lucky, because he can make seafaring pay. The rest of us must indulge it tamely on board a yacht and, however you economize, yachting costs you much."
"Harry has a talent for making his occupations pay," Marston agreed and noted that Flora knitted her brows.
"You are romantic, father," she said. "I don't think Harry is taking his ancestors' path. They were hard and reckless men and traded in flesh and blood. You trade in rubber and dyewoods, don't you, Bob?"
"For the most part. However, we get a bit of everything; ambergris, pearls, and curious drugs."
"I like pearls," Flora remarked, but stopped ratherabruptly and Mabel gave Marston a quick glance. He thought he saw what she meant; he must not talk about pearls just then.
After a time Flora said they must go, and went out with Mabel, but Chisholm stopped by Marston's chair.
"It looks as if you were quite satisfied about this venture of Wyndham's, Bob," he said.
"Why, yes," Marston replied. "I've backed my approval by investing a good sum."
Chisholm was quiet for a moment or two, and then resumed: "That is not altogether what I meant; in fact, it's hard to state frankly what I do mean. I like Harry Wyndham. He's clever, resolute, and a good sportsman, but when he wanted to marry Flora I hesitated. Well, your story has given me some comfort. You have been with Wyndham and are satisfied. One can trust you."
"You are very kind, sir," Marston answered with a touch of awkwardness. "The business is risky, the climate's bad, and one must use some control. Leave liquor alone, for example; I think you understand! Still Harry's rather a Spartan; there's an ascetic vein in him. Besides, he won't stay long. As soon as he has put things straight he's coming back."
"Thank you," said Chisholm, but when he went off Marston felt embarrassed.
Chisholm trusted him and he was not sure he had been altogether frank. Wyndham, of course, was free from certain gross temptations to which some white men in the tropics were victims; but there were others, subtle and insidious, that rather appealed to the brain than the body. Marston could not declare that Harry resisted these. Yet it was impossible he should tellChisholm his vague but disturbing doubts. It was some relief when Mabel returned and sat down opposite.
"Have they tired you, Bob?" she asked. "Light a cigarette and don't talk unless you want."
"I want to talk," said Marston, who used no reserve with her.
"Very well. To begin with, you saw my hint when Flora talked about the pearls."
Marston laughed. "After all, I'm not so dull as some people think. You didn't want Flora to know I had brought you pearls?"
"Something like that. Why did Harry send her none?"
"It's rather puzzling," Marston replied thoughtfully. "I suggested I should take a few to Flora, but he said they were not good enough. They're not really first-class pearls, you know. Then he said they might be unlucky. The strange thing is, I think he meant it."
"Yet you brought some for me? You're honest, but you don't always use much tact, dear Bob!"
"Oh, well. We're not superstitious and I'd no grounds for thinking the pearls would bring bad luck."
"It looks as if your partner had some grounds."
"Yes," said Marston. "I don't understand the thing. For that matter, I was puzzled about other things now and then, and although I wanted to get back to you I felt shabby about coming home. Somehow I had a notion I ought to stay. After all, you let me go and would like me to finish my job."
"You're rather a dear and very staunch," Mabelremarked with a gentle smile. "Anyhow, you were ill and had done enough."
She was quiet for a time and Marston was satisfied to smoke and study her. It had got dark, but the fire was bright and touched her face while she sat still, as if lost in concentrated thought. Marston thought her beautiful and she had beauty, but her beauty was not her strongest charm.
"Bob," she remarked presently, "yours was a curious dream."
"I had fever, you know, but the thing was remarkably real. It was like lantern pictures melting on the screen. Background and figures were accurate and lifelike. In the last scene, I knew I was inColumbine's cabin and can hardly persuade myself I was quite asleep. The tide splashed about the boat; I could smell the mud."
"Yet you saw Wyndham's uncle change into the horrible old mulatto."
Marston nodded. "He faded and got distinct again, different, but not different altogether. This was the puzzling thing. However, the story the agent told us about the Leopards had haunted me and I'd often thought about Rupert Wyndham. Perhaps it was because I saw his portrait and he was like my partner."
"You mean he was like him physically?"
"That's not all. Of course a portrait doesn't tell one very much, but I thought Harry had Rupert's temperament."
"I see," said Mabel, knitting her straight brows. "To begin with, do you know Rupert Wyndham's temperament?"
"In a way; Harry and Ellams, the agent, talked about him much. He was a daring man; I think reckless is the proper word. We sober folks have our code, we must do this and not the other; men like Rupert Wyndham have none. If a thing looked worth getting, he'd venture much and break rules for it. Harry, you know, is like that; I mean he'd venture much. Well, I think Rupert made some rash experiments in Africa. He studied the negroes' habits and tried to get their point of view."
"With an object, you suggest? What did he want?"
"Harry imagined it was power."
"Ah," said Mabel. "Harry wants Flora. And he has Rupert's recklessness!"
Marston made a sign of disagreement. "There's a difference. A man might do much for power; but for a girl like Flora he must be fastidious. It wouldn't help if he got money and lost her respect. Harry knows this. He's not a fool."
"But suppose Flora didn't know how he got his money?"
"Harry doesn't cheat. He wouldn't use means she disapproved and then claim his reward."
"Oh, well," said Mabel, "I think we'll let it go. I like you to trust your friends."
Soon afterwards a car came to the steps and Mabel saw that Marston put on a warm scarf and fastened his collar before he drove off. Then she went back to the fire and pondered his story and subsequent remarks. The story was strange, but she thought she saw a light where all was dark to Bob. She had long suspected that Wyndham was reckless and would not be boundby rules if the prize he sought made his breaking them worth while. Moreover, she had got books about West Africa and the Caribbean that touched on Fetish and Voodoo superstitions. Perhaps she was romantic, but it was possible Wyndham, led by strong temptation, had ventured where a white man ought not to go. With an effort, Mabel banished her doubts. After all, the thing was unthinkable. Bob had not been cheated; he knew Harry.
In the morning, Marston occupied himself with some old books in Wyndhams' office at the top of a big stone building. The office was comfortably furnished and there was a good picture of an old-fashioned sailing ship on the wall; the big single-top sails indicated when she was built. At the end of the street the window commanded, the masts and funnels of channel steamers rose above a warehouse where Wyndhams' barks and brigs had loaded goods they bartered for slaves. Marston glanced at the modern iron masts and smiled when he looked up, for the book he studied had nothing to do with business.
It was the log of the slaverProvidencethat Wyndham had talked about, and it related how they towed her with the boats when the negroes died in the suffocating hold. There was something about a sacrifice that did not bring the needed wind and its cost was charged against the freight. They were hard men, touched by strange superstitions, who towed theProvidence, but their brutality was businesslike. Marston found an entry for the negroes used up at the oars, with their value at Jamaica properly noted.
After a time, he shut the log-book. He had read enough and resolved there would be a break in someof Wyndhams' traditions now he was a partner in the house. He had noted things he did not like, and Harry would support his new plans when he came home. By and by he heard steps in the clerks' office and a broker was announced. The latter came in and put a small brown jar on the table.
"I told your people we wanted some hard oil and they sent us samples," he said. "If the bulk's quite up to specimen, I think it ought to meet the bill. We must have prime quality for the particular job."
Marston picked up the jar, which held a quantity of thick yellow grease. It was palm oil and its strong but rather pleasant smell awoke vivid memories. He saw the whitewashed factory shine beside the muddy river and a gang of naked negroes filling big barrels in a compound tunneled by land-crabs' holes. The compound glowed with light against a background of forest wrapped in unchanging gloom, from which the palm oil came. For all that, the oil was a well-known article of commerce. There was nothing mysterious about its production and Marston would have been satisfied had Wyndhams' confined its trade to stuff like this. Then he saw the broker was waiting.
"Don't samples generally stand for the bulk?" he asked.
The broker looked at him rather sharply and smiled.
"It depends upon the people with whom you deal and the skill of their warehouseman. A man who knows his job can draw samples that will pass a good-middling lot as prime, and this without the buyer's being able to claim that they're not fairly representative. But of course, you know——"
"I don't know. You see, I'm a beginner," Marston replied, and examined a ticket stuck in the oil. "Well, I saw this lot barreled in Africa. The quality isnotprime."
The broker looked surprised and annoyed. "Then your manager has made things rather awkward for us. One uses some judgment about samples, but our customer must have a first-class article and we engaged to supply him at a stated price. I'll own that the price was a little below what others asked. We quoted on your offer."
"Our offer stands," said Marston, who indicated the jar. "Will you be satisfied if the oil we send is all like this?"
"We will be quite satisfied."
"Very well. Send in the order and you'll get the quality you want."
The broker lighted a cigarette and gave Marston his case. "I like the way you do business. We are buying for big people, the trade's steady and good, but we haven't dealt much with Wyndhams' before. If this lot's all right, other orders will follow."
"You can take it for granted the lot will be all right," Marston replied.
He frowned when the broker went out. It looked as if Wyndhams' goods had not always been up to sample and Marston remembered hints he heard about the character of the house. Harry, however had not long had control and had, perhaps, left things to his clerks. It was going to be different now.
Presently Marston got up and went to the general office where he interviewed the young manager. Hedid not say much, but he was very firm and when he returned to his room the other shrugged.
"If the new partner takes this line, your next balance sheet won't be good," he remarked to the book-keeper.