PRELUDE—THE SLAVER
He closed the Bible carefully, putting it down
As if his fingers loved it.
Then he turned.
"Mr. Mate."
"Yes, sir."
The captain's eyes held a shadow.
"I think, while this weather lasts," he said, after a pause,
"We'd better get them on deck as much as we can.
They keep better that way. Besides," he added, unsmiling,
"She's begun to stink already. You've noticed it?"
The mate nodded, a boyish nod of half-apology,
"And only a week out, too, sir."
"Yes," said the skipper.
His eyes looked into themselves. "Well. The trade," he said,
"The trade's no damn perfume-shop." He drummed with his fingers.
"Seem to be quiet to-night," he murmured at last.
"Oh yes sir, quiet enough." The mate flushed. "Not
What you'd call quiet at home but—quiet enough."
"Um," said the skipper. "What about the big fellow?"
"Tarbarrel, sir? The man who says he's a king?
He was praying to something—it made the others restless.
Mr. Olsen stopped it."
"I don't like that," said the skipper.
"It was only an idol, sir."
"Oh."
"A stone or something."
11
