Wyndham's Pal

Peters knew much about the country and told him some rather curious stories. He looked shriveled and desiccated, but his glance was keen and Marston imagined he was very shrewd. Marston, however, did not study him much; it was enough that he was an amusing companion while Wyndham was occupied. By-and-by the latter opened the cabin scuttle and beckoned.

"You have some paper money, Bob. Lend me a few bills," he said.

Marston asked the sum he wanted and was surprised when Wyndham told him.

"Is it necessary to give him so much?" he asked.

"Perhaps it's advisable. We'll soon be ready for sea and I expect the fellow could keep us here while he made fresh inquiries and wrote reports. He's polite, but he rather hinted something like that. Of course, he has no notion of really finding out why Don Felix died."

"We want to find out," Marston rejoined.

Wyndham smiled. "That's another thing; the government officials don't want to bother. If we knew who was accountable, it would be hard to get them to move. However, Don Ramon is waiting – "

Marston took out his wallet and after giving Wyndham some money went back to Peters, whose eyes twinkled.

"Your partner knows the customs of the country," he remarked. "On the whole, it pays to be generous. In a climate like this, it's prudent to save oneself unnecessary trouble."

"We don't want to avoid trouble," Marston replied. "If I was persuaded our agent was poisoned and could get on the poisoner's track, I'd use some energy to follow it up."

Peters shrugged. "You can do nothing; better let it rest. In the fever swamps, men who are well one day often die the next. It is possible they have an enemy in the bush, but the law does not reach up yonder. Sickness is common and human life is cheap."

They talked about something else until Wyndham and Larrinaga came on the deck. The latter bowed to Marston when his canoe was paddled to the gangway.

"I thank you and your partner, señor," he said. "If I can be of help, remember I am your servant."

"It was nothing," Marston replied. "I expect Señor Wyndham has told you all we know, but if you can find out anything important, you'll earn our gratitude. The man who tells me why Don Felix died can count on his reward."

Peters gave him a curious glance and smiled. "After all, the reward may perhaps be claimed. It is not likely, I admit, but things one does not look for sometimes happen."

He got into the canoe and when the negroes paddled off Marston leaned against the rail.

"I suppose we need expect nothing from Larrinaga," he remarked. "How much did you tell him?"

"All I thought it useful for him to know," said Wyndham, rather dryly. "He's a common type; lazy and greedy. Now he's got his bribe, I don't suppose he'll bother us. What did you think about the other?"

"I didn't study him much. Amusing fellow, but you get a hint of force. I imagine he's clever and a man who can hold on. Anyhow, he doesn't matter, since it's improbable we'll see him again. We'll have the holds full in a day or two and I've had enough of the lagoon."

"All the same, I'm rather afraid we can't get away just yet."

Marston began to grumble, but Wyndham smiled.

"There are things to straighten out and now we have no agent I may be needed, but it won't be necessary for you to stay. In fact, I'd like you to take the schooner to the next port and transship the cargo. Then you could come back for me and the extra load I half expect, but I'll know more when I've been to the village, and we'll talk about this again."

Wyndham started for the village next day, and when it was getting dark Marston lounged on deck looking out for the boat. Some of the crew had gone with Wyndham, the rest were in the forecastle, and except for the cook at the galley door Marston had the deck to himself. The yacht was slowly lifting with the tide, which spread across the mud banks in the lagoon. Thin mist drifted about the mangroves and there was not a breath of wind. The water glimmered with faint reflections but in a few minutes it would be dark.

Presently Marston, looking over the rail, imagined there was somebody behind him on the deck. For a moment or two, however, he did not turn. He had heard no step and had recently felt himself highly strung. It looked as if Don Felix's death had given him a jar, but he was not going to indulge his shaken nerves. Still he felt there was somebody about and he slowly and deliberately looked round. The mulatto who had visited him before squatted on the deck, as if he had been there some time. Marston thought he saw amusement in his wrinkled face and his anger arose.

"Cappy Wyndham lib for on board?" the old fellow asked.

"He is not on board," said Marston roughly. "What do you want?"

"You done get them cargo?"

"We did. I don't know if you had much to do with it, but I suppose you expect your dash. What would you like? Money?"

The other shook his head. "Money no good. My friend sick too much. You dash me some medicine."

Marston remembered the packet of drugs and found it needful to use some control. He did not know if the mulatto was the Bat or not, but on the whole thought he was and the horror of his watch at Don Felix's house was fresh. Yet he had nothing to go upon and would not be justified in throwing the fellow overboard. The other watched him with bloodshot eyes, and although his face was inscrutable, Marston began to feel uneasy. He wondered whether the fellow was something of a hypnotist, for he got a hint of force; force that he thought malevolent. Looking forward along the deck, he imagined he saw the cook at the galley door, but the indistinct figure vanished and Marston felt it was significant that the negro had gone inside. Then he braced himself and looked back.

"I will not give you medicine, but since we did get the cargo, perhaps you deserve something," he said. "Wait a minute."

Going to the cabin, he opened a locker in which they had put a quantity of African trade goods. The stuff was rubbish, made to please the negro's eye; brass, jewelry, cheap scent, colored flannel jackets, and frail umbrellas. Marston picked up as much as he could carry and was conscious of rather dry amusement as he climbed the ladder. His visitor had obviously learned English in West Africa and he was going to give him the usual African dash, but he knew the old fellow had no use for the stuff. It was like giving a philosopher a child's toy.

"There you are!" said Marston, throwing down the articles. "Now get off!"

"I lib for see Cappy Wyndham," the other objected.

"Get off the ship," said Marston. "Don't come back!"

He wondered how the man would go. There was no canoe about and the water round the vessel was three or four feet deep; she lay obliquely to the beach. It was ridiculous to imagine the other had vanished on his last visit, but Marston had not seen how he went. Now, however, he meant to watch.

The mulatto picked up the load of rubbish and went forward along the deck. He jumped on the end of the bowsprit and Marston smiled, for it looked as if he could not use his tricks when one kept one's eye on him. Balancing himself cautiously, he walked along the spar and melted in the dark. But in a few moments there was a splash and Marston knew he had dropped from the bowsprit's end into shallow water. Somehow this was soothing and he went to the cabin. In an hour or two Wyndham returned and when they lighted their pipes after supper Marston remarked:

"The old fellow Don Felix imagined was the Bat turned up again."

"Ah," said Wyndham, who looked interested. "Don Felix hadn't seen him; we don't know he is the Bat."

"Father Sebastian agreed that he was, and I haven't much doubt. He said the man was evil and I think evil's the proper word. He gives me a strange nervous shrinking. Have you felt a kind of nausea when you looked at something repulsive? Well, I feel like that when he's about."

"As a rule, you don't let your imagination carry you away," Wyndham remarked. "I expect the heat and the dismal surroundings account for much."

"Anyhow, I gave him a dash and ordered him off the boat."

Wyndham glanced up rather sharply. "Why? We have got some valuable goods, and although we'll have to pay their owners, it looks as if the old fellow was useful."

"I don't want any goods he sends," Marston rejoined. "My notion is they're better left alone. Then I'm a partner, and although I haven't meddled much, I felt I ought to use my power."

"Oh, well," said Wyndham. "You are a partner, I suppose we must let it go."

They talked about something else and next evening Marston took the schooner's dinghy and rowed down the lagoon. He had heard curlew whistle in the dark and wondered whether the birds were as wild as they are in England. For a time he followed the edge of the mangroves, where water dripped from the arched roots, and amphibious things splashed in the muddy caves; and then skirted a sloppy bank the tide flowed across. Now and then he saw a curlew but did not get a shot, and by and by he put down the oars. The damp heat was enervating and he rested and looked about.

It would soon be dark and the mangroves cut in a straight black line against a fading orange glow. The land-breeze began to shake the leaves and now and then a pale branch moved. All was very quiet but for the dull rumble of the surf outside. Marston felt languid and vaguely disturbed. There was something about Wyndham that puzzled him. When they were at sea he did not want a better friend, but it was different when they went ashore to trade. Well, he had come to look after Harry and now understood better why Mabel had let him go. Perhaps Harry really needed to be looked after. Marston was staunch, but he knew Mabel had not altogether trusted his comrade.

There was another thing; he must soon sail the schooner to the next port and he wanted to go, but Harry meant to stay. Marston did not like this, although he could think of no logical objection. The mulatto's visits bothered him. The fellow had asked for Wyndham and somehow Marston would sooner they did not meet. Perhaps the thing was ridiculous, but he felt like that.

It got dark and although there was no obvious reason for his return he felt he ought to get back to the yacht. Recently he had felt highly strung. This was, no doubt, the consequence of pottering about the unhealthy swamps, but he must control his illogical impulses and he lighted his pipe while he let the dinghy drift with the tide.

She floated quietly up the lagoon and presently he saw Columbine's lights in the mist. Pulling a few languid strokes, he let the boat drift again until the vessel's dark side was close ahead. Then he put out his hand and seized a rope. He wore rubber boots, because he had thought he might wade across the mud, and made no noise when he stepped down from the rail. There was nobody on deck, but a light shone in the cabin and when he went aft he heard voices. The skylight was open and one of the voices was the old mulatto's.