he steered, true as a hair to the course, his lips kept working as he muttered to himself.
He looked like a man scared, and steering, alone, out of some imminent danger, that appearance of being isolated was the strangest thing. It made Rantan feel for a moment as though he were not there, as though the Kermadec were a ship deserted by all but the steersman.
Sru was scared. Steering true as an automaton, his mind was far away in the land of vacancy and pursued by white feller Mas’r Pete’son. It had come on him like a stroke when Le Moan, approaching him, had asked where the bearded man was who had gone ashore and not returned. He had no fear of Le Moan or her question, but out of it Peterson had come, the white man whom he had always feared yet whom he had dared to kill. The appalling power that had strengthened his arm and mind, the power of the vision of tobacco unlimited, Swedish matches, knives, gin and seidlitz powders, was no longer with him—Peterson was on his back, worse than any black dog, and now he steered, his head began to toss from side to side and like a man exalted by drink he began to sing and chatter, whilst Rantan, who knew the Paumotuan mind and that in another minute the wheel would be dropped and the steersman loose and running amok, drew close.
Then suddenly, and with all the force of his body behind the blow, he struck and Sru fell like a poleaxed ox whilst the mate snapping at the spokes of the
