Van Horn sent Tambi below to bring up the small phonograph and run off the dozen or so scratchy, screechy records that had already been under the needle a thousand times.  Between records, Van Horn recollected the girl, and had her haled out of her dark hole in the lazarette to listen to the music.  She obeyed in fear, apprehensive that her time had come.  She looked dumbly at the big fella white master, her eyes large with fright; nor did the trembling of her body cease for a long time after he had made her lie down.  The phonograph meant nothing to her.  She knew only fear—­fear of this terrible white man that she was certain was destined to eat her.

Jerry left the caressing hand of Skipper for a moment to go over and sniff her.  This was an act of duty.  He was identifying her once again.  No matter what happened, no matter what months or years might elapse, he would know her again and for ever know her again.  He returned to the free hand of Skipper that resumed its caressing.  The other hand held the cigar which he was smoking.

The wet sultry heat grew more oppressive.  The air was nauseous with the dank mucky odour that cooked out of the mangrove swamp.  Rowelled by the squeaky music to recollection of old-world ports and places, Borckman lay on his face on the hot planking, beat a tattoo with his naked toes, and gutturally muttered an unending monologue of curses.  But Van Horn, with Jerry panting under his hand, placidly and philosophically continued to smoke, lighting a fresh cigar when the first gave out.

He roused abruptly at the faint wash of paddles which he was the first on board to hear.  In fact, it was Jerry’s low growl and neck-rippling of hair that had keyed Van Horn to hear.  Pulling the stick of dynamite out from the twist of his loin cloth and glancing at the cigar to be certain it was alight, he rose to his feet with leisurely swiftness and with leisurely swiftness gained the rail.

“What name belong you?” was his challenge to the dark.

“Me fella Ishikola,” came the answer in the quavering falsetto of age.

Van Horn, before speaking again, loosened his automatic pistol half out of its holster, and slipped the holster around from his hip till it rested on his groin conveniently close to his hand.

“How many fella boy stop along you?” he demanded.

“One fella ten-boy altogether he stop,” came the aged voice.

“Come alongside then.”  Without turning his head, his right hand unconsciously dropping close to the butt of the automatic, Van Horn commanded:  “You fella Tambi.  Fetch ’m lantern.  No fetch ’m this place.  Fetch ’m aft along mizzen rigging and look sharp eye belong you.”

Tambi obeyed, exposing the lantern twenty feet away from where his captain stood.  This gave Van Horn the advantage over the approaching canoe-men, for the lantern, suspended through the barbed wire across the rail and well down, would clearly illuminate the occupants of the canoe while he was left in semi-darkness and shadow.