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The explanation lay in the two simple facts that the light winds and strong currents of the Java Sea had drifted the boat about until they partly lost their bearings; and that by some extraordinary mistake one of the two jars put into the boat by Schomberg's man contained salt water. Ricardo tried to put some pathos into his tones. Pulling for thirty hours with eighteen-foot oars! And the sun! Ricardo relieved his feelings by cursing the sun. They had felt their hearts and lungs shrivel within them. And then, as if all that hadn't been trouble enough, he complained bitterly, he had had to waste his fainting strength in beating their servant about the head with a stretcher. The fool had wanted to drink sea water, and wouldn't listen to reason. There was no stopping him otherwise. It was better to beat him into insensibility than to have him go crazy in the boat, and to be obliged to shoot him. The preventive, administered with enough force to brain an elephant, boasted Victory.
Ricardo, had to be applied on two occasions—the second time all but in sight of the jetty.
“You have seen the beauty,” Ricardo went on expansively, hiding his lack of some sort of probable story under this loquacity. "I had to hammer him away from the spout. Opened afresh all the old broken spots on his head. You saw how hard I had to hit. He has no restraint, no restraint at all. If it wasn't that he can be made useful in one way or another, I would just as soon have let the governor shoot him.”
He smiled up at Heyst in his peculiar lip-retracting manner, and added by way of afterthought:
“That's what will happen to him in the end, if he doesn't learn to restrain himself. But I've taught him to mind his manners for a while, anyhow!"
And again he addressed his quick grin up to the man on the wharf.
His round eyes had never left Heyst's face ever since he began to deliver his account of the voyage.
“So that's how he looks!” Ricardo was saying to himself.
He had not expected Heyst to be like this. He had formed for himself a conception containing the helpful suggestion of a vulnerable point. These solitary men were often tipplers. But no
this was not a drinking man's face; nor could he detect the
weakness of alarm, or even the weakness of surprise, on these features, in these steady eyes.
“We were too far gone to climb out,” Ricardo went on. "I heard you walking along, though. I thought I shouted; I tried to. You didn't hear me shout ?"
Heyst made an almost imperceptible negative sign, which the greedy eyes of Ricardo-greedy for all signs—did not miss. “Throat too parched.
We didn't even care to whisper to each other lately. Thirst chokes one. We might have died there under this wharf before you found us.” “I couldn't think where
to.” Heyst was heard at last, addressing directly the newcomers from the sea. "You were seen as soon as you cleared that point."
“We were seen, eh ?" grunted Mr. Ricardo. “We pulled like machines—daren't stop. The governor sat at the tiller, but he couldn't speak to us. She drove in between the piles till she hit something, and we all tumbled off the thwarts as if we had been drunk. Drunk_ha, ha! Too dry, by George! We fetched in here with the very last of our strength, and no mistake. Another mile would have done for us. When I heard your footsteps above, I tried to get up, and I fell down."
“That was the first sound I heard,” said Heyst.
Mr. Jones, the front of his soiled white tunic soaked and plastered against his breast-bone, staggered away from the water-pipe. Steadying himself on Ricardo's shoulder, he drew a long breath, raised his dripping head, and produced a smile of ghastly amiability, which was lost upon the thoughtful Heyst. Behind his back the sun, touching the water, was like a disc of iron cooled to a dull red glow, ready to start rolling round the circular steel plate of the sea, which, under the darkening sky, looked more solid than the high ridge of Samburan; more solid than the point, whose long outlined slope melted into its own unfathomable shadow blurring the dim sheen on the bay. The stream from the pipe broke like shattered glass on the boat's gunwale. Its loud splashing revealed the depth of the world's silence.
“Great notion, to lead the water out here,” pronounced Ricardo appreciatively.
Water was life. He felt now as if he could run a mile, scale a ten-foot wall, sing a song. Only a few minutes ago he was next door to a corpse, done up, unable to stand, to lift a hand; unable to groan. A drop of water had done that miracle.
"Didn't you feel life itself running and soaking into you, sir ?” he asked his principal, with deferential but forced vivacity.
Without a word, Mr. Jones stepped off the thwart and sat down in the stern-sheets.
“Isn't that man of yours bleeding to death in the bows under there ?” inquired Heyst.
Ricardo ceased his ecstasies over the life-giving water and answered in a tone of innocence:
“He ? You may call him à man, but his hide is a jolly sight tougher than the toughest alligator he ever skinned in the good old days. You don't know how much he can stand; I do. We have tried him long time ago.
Olà, there! Pedro! Pedro!” he yelled, with a force of lung testifying to the regenerative virtues of water.
A weak “Señor ?" answered from under the wharf.
“What did I tell you ?” said Ricardo triumphantly. "Nothing can hurt him. He's all right. But, I say, the boat's getting swamped. Can't you turn this water off before you sink her under us? She's half full already."
At a sign from Heyst, Wang hammered at the brass tap on the wharf, then stood behind Number One, crowbar in hand, motionless as before. Ricardo was perhaps not so certain of Pedro's toughness as he affirmed; for he stooped, peering under the wharf, then moved forward out of sight. The gush of water, ceasing suddenly, made a silence which became com