rail like a ghost and slipped down to the cabin with Peterson to talk business.
Rantan and Carlin leaned over the side and watched the kanakas in the boat pulling forward to talk to the schooner crew congregated at the rail by the foc’sle head.
The beach lay only a cable length or two away, empty except for a couple of fishing canoes drawn up beyond tide mark; no house was to be seen, the village lying back among the trees, and no sound came from all that incredible wealth of verdure—nothing, but the far voice of a torrent, raving yet slumbrous and mixed with the hush of the surf on the reefs and beach.
“Notice that chap,” said Carlin, “didn’t look to right or left of him, same’s if he’d been doped. Reckon he’s full of money too if he’s the only trader here—notice his white ducks and his dandy hat and the mug under it? I know the sort. Drink turns to vinegar in a chap like that and that’s the sort that makes money in the islands.”
“Or the fellows that aren’t afraid to put their hands on the stuff when they see it,” replied Rantan. “Well, what about that pearl island I was speaking of?”
“And that hooker you were going to take to get there,” cut in Carlin. “Put me on her deck and I’m with you.”
“You’re on it,” replied Rantan.
Carlin laughed. He had known Rantan’s meaning all along and this strange game of evasion between the
