and especially now the figure of Sru, who had suddenly risen as though alarmed and was standing spear in hand.
Then at a run he made for the trees and vanished.
Carlin turned away from the rail and spat. The palms of his hands were sweating and something went knock, knock, knock, in his ears with every beat of his heart. The kanakas on board were down in the foc’sle from which a thin island voice rose singing an endless song, the deck was clear only for the figure of Le Moan—and Carlin, half crazy with excitement, not daring to look towards the beach, walking like a drunken man up and down began to shout and talk to the girl.
“Hi, you kanaka girl,” cried Carlin, “something up on the beach—Lord God! she can’t talk, why can’t you talk, hey? Whacha staring at me dumb for? Rouse the chaps forward, we’ll be wantin’ the anchor up” ... He went to the foc’sle head and kicked—calling to the hands below to tumble up, tumble up, and to hell with their singing for there was something going on on the beach. Ruining everything, himself included, if they had been a white crew; then making a dash down to the saloon he beat and smashed at the store cupboard where he knew the whiskey was kept, beat with his naked fists till the panels gave and he tore them out, and breaking the neck of a whiskey bottle, drank with bleeding lips till a quarter of the bottle was gone.
