He tried to thrust himself farther in.  Massy, with lowered forehead, one hand grasping the back of the arm-chair, did not budge.

“You think, sir, that the man has got you tight in his agreement . . .”  Massy raised a heavy snarling face at this . . .  “Well, sir, one can’t help hearing of it on board.  It’s no secret.  And it has been the talk on shore for years; fellows have been making bets about it.  No, sir!  It’s you who have got him at your mercy.  You will say that you can’t dismiss him for indolence.  Difficult to prove in court, and so on.  Why, yes.  But if you say the word, sir, I can tell you something about his indolence that will give you the clear right to fire him out on the spot and put me in charge for the rest of this very trip—­yes, sir, before we leave Batu Beru—­and make him pay a dollar a day for his keep till we get back, if you like.  Now, what do you think of that?  Come, sir.  Say the word.  It’s really well worth your while, and I am quite ready to take your bare word.  A definite statement from you would be as good as a bond.”

His eyes began to shine.  He insisted.  A simple statement,—­and he thought to himself that he would manage somehow to stick in his berth as long as it suited him.  He would make himself indispensable; the ship had a bad name in her port; it would be easy to scare the fellows off.  Massy would have to keep him.

“A definite statement from me would be enough,” Massy repeated slowly.

“Yes, sir.  It would.”  Sterne stuck out his chin cheerily and blinked at close quarters with that unconscious impudence which had the power to enrage Massy beyond anything.

The engineer spoke very distinctly.

“Listen well to me, then, Mr. Sterne:  I wouldn’t—­d’ye hear?—­I wouldn’t promise you the value of two pence for anything you can tell me.”

He struck Sterne’s arm away with a smart blow, and catching hold of the handle pulled the door to.  The terrific slam darkened the cabin instantaneously to his eye as if after the flash of an explosion.  At once he dropped into the chair.  “Oh, no!  You don’t!” he whispered faintly.

The ship had in that place to shave the bank so close that the gigantic wall of leaves came gliding like a shutter against the port; the darkness of the primeval forest seemed to flow into that bare cabin with the odor of rotting leaves, of sodden soil—­the strong muddy smell of the living earth steaming uncovered after the passing of a deluge.  The bushes swished loudly alongside; above there was a series of crackling sounds, with a sharp rain of small broken branches falling on the bridge; a creeper with a great rustle snapped on the head of a boat davit, and a long, luxuriant green twig actually whipped in and out of the open port, leaving behind a few torn leaves that remained suddenly at rest on Mr. Massy’s blanket.  Then, the ship sheering out in the stream, the light began to return but did not augment beyond a subdued clearness:  for the sun was very low already, and the river, wending its sinuous course through a multitude of secular trees as if at the bottom of a precipitous gorge, had been already invaded by a deepening gloom—­the swift precursor of the night.