when it did utter it. Once more the lead splashed,
and “Eleven fadom” was the resulting cry.
“Let go!” the low voice came to her through
the darkness, followed by the surging rumble of the
anchor-chain. The clicking of the sheaves in
the blocks as the sails ran down, head-sails first,
was music to her; and she detected on the instant the
jamming of a jib-downhaul, and almost saw the impatient
jerk with which the sailor must have cleared it.
Nor did she take interest in the two men beside her
till both lights, red and green, came into view as
the anchor checked the onward way.
Sheldon was wondering as to the identity of the craft,
while Tudor persisted in believing it might be the
Martha.
“It’s the Minerva,” Joan
said decidedly.
“How do you know?” Sheldon asked, sceptical
of her certitude.
“It’s a ketch to begin with. And
besides, I could tell anywhere the rattle of her main
peak-blocks—they’re too large for
the halyard.”
A dark figure crossed the compound diagonally from
the beach gate, where whoever it was had been watching
the vessel.
“Is that you, Utami?” Joan called.
“No, Missie; me Matapuu,” was the answer.
“What vessel is it?”
“Me t’ink Minerva.”
Joan looked triumphantly at Sheldon, who bowed.
“If Matapuu says so it must be so,” he
murmured.
“But when Joan Lackland says so, you doubt,”
she cried, “just as you doubt her ability as
a skipper. But never mind, you’ll be sorry
some day for all your unkindness. There’s
the boat lowering now, and in five minutes we’ll
be shaking hands with Christian Young.”
Lalaperu brought out the glasses and cigarettes and
the eternal whisky and soda, and before the five minutes
were past the gate clicked and Christian Young, tawny
and golden, gentle of voice and look and hand, came
up the bungalow steps and joined them.
News, as usual, Christian Young brought—news
of the drinking at Guvutu, where the men boasted that
they drank between drinks; news of the new rifles
adrift on Ysabel, of the latest murders on Malaita,
of Tom Butler’s sickness on Santa Ana; and last
and most important, news that the Matambo had
gone on a reef in the Shortlands and would be laid
off one run for repairs.
“That means five weeks more before you can sail
for Sydney,” Sheldon said to Joan.
“And that we are losing precious time,”
she added ruefully.
“If you want to go to Sydney, the Upolu
sails from Tulagi to-morrow afternoon,” Young
said.
“But I thought she was running recruits for
the Germans in Samoa,” she objected. “At
any rate, I could catch her to Samoa, and change at
Apia to one of the Weir Line freighters. It’s
a long way around, but still it would save time.”
