from giving trouble, would welcome her back—but that crowd, its movements and the flash of the thready spears! He made vague answers to the questions flung at him by the mate, then at the order to let go the anchor he ran forward whilst Carlin dived below, returning with two of the Vetirli rifles and ammunition. Then as the anchor fell and the Kermadec swung to her moorings on the flood, nose to the break, Rantan, leaving the wheel and standing with compressed lips, his hand on the after rail and his eyes on the crowd, suddenly broke silence and turned to Carlin.
“We don’t want any fighting,” said he. “We’ve got to palaver them. It’s a jolt. Peterson said the place was empty, and I reckon he lied or else he didn’t keep his eyes skinned, but whether or no we’ve got to swallow it. Worst is we’ve no trade to speak of, nothing but sandalwood. No matter—we don’t want nothing but to be left alone. Order out the boat and we’ll row off to them, and keep those guns hid.”
He went below for Peterson’s revolver which Carlin had forgotten, and when he returned, the boat was down with four kanakas for crew and Carlin in the stern sheets; he followed and took his place by the beachcomber and the boat pushed off.
He had made a great blunder, absolutely forgotten the existence of Le Moan and her use as an ambassador, but the mind of Rantan was working against odds.
He had never consciously worried about Peterson.
