The deep, interminable hoot of the steam-whistle had, in its grave, vibrating note, something intolerable, which sent a slight shudder down Mr. Van Wyk’s back.  It was the early afternoon; the Sofala was leaving Batu Beru for Pangu, the next place of call.  She swung in the stream, scantily attended by a few canoes, and, gliding on the broad river, became lost to view from the Van Wyk bungalow.

Its owner had not gone this time to see her off.  Generally he came down to the wharf, exchanged a few words with the bridge while she cast off, and waved his hand to Captain Whalley at the last moment.  This day he did not even go as far as the balustrade of the veranda.  “He couldn’t see me if I did,” he said to himself.  “I wonder whether he can make out the house at all.”  And this thought somehow made him feel more alone than he had ever felt for all these years.  What was it? six or seven?  Seven.  A long time.

He sat on the veranda with a closed book on his knee, and, as it were, looked out upon his solitude, as if the fact of Captain Whalley’s blindness had opened his eyes to his own.  There were many sorts of heartaches and troubles, and there was no place where they could not find a man out.  And he felt ashamed, as though he had for six years behaved like a peevish boy.

His thought followed the Sofala on her way.  On the spur of the moment he had acted impulsively, turning to the thing most pressing.  And what else could he have done?  Later on he should see.  It seemed necessary that he should come out into the world, for a time at least.  He had money—­something could be arranged; he would grudge no time, no trouble, no loss of his solitude.  It weighed on him now—­and Captain Whalley appeared to him as he had sat shading his eyes, as if, being deceived in the trust of his faith, he were beyond all the good and evil that can be wrought by the hands of men.

Mr. Van Wyk’s thoughts followed the Sofala down the river, winding about through the belt of the coast forest, between the buttressed shafts of the big trees, through the mangrove strip, and over the bar.  The ship crossed it easily in broad daylight, piloted, as it happened, by Mr. Sterne, who took the watch from four to six, and then went below to hug himself with delight at the prospect of being virtually employed by a rich man—­like Mr. Van Wyk.  He could not see how any hitch could occur now.  He did not seem able to get over the feeling of being “fixed up at last.”  From six to eight, in the course of duty, the Serang looked alone after the ship.  She had a clear road before her now till about three in the morning, when she would close with the Pangu group.  At eight Mr. Sterne came out cheerily to take charge again till midnight.  At ten he was still chirruping and humming to himself on the bridge, and about that time Mr. Van Wyk’s thought abandoned the Sofala.  Mr. Van Wyk had fallen asleep at last.

Massy, blocking the engine-room companion, jerked himself into his tweed jacket surlily, while the second waited with a scowl.