Part 13 (1/2)

”Not that, you a.s.s!” exclaimed Mr. McKay, laughing.

”Gla.s.s--telescope--see?” and he raised his hands to imitate the operation of using a telescope. ”I'll have the drink, anyhow.”

Once more Quexo ran to the house, this time bringing back the required instrument.

”There are at least forty natives,” said Mr. McKay, after a lengthy examination of the oncoming craft. ”They may be armed. If so, their weapons are lying on the bottom of the canoe. But unless I am very much mistaken, there's a white man aboard.”

”A prisoner? Let me have a look, pater!”

In his eagerness Andy almost s.n.a.t.c.hed the telescope from his parent's hand.

”A queer set of customers,” he exclaimed; ”but I don't think the white man is a captive, for he's talking to a fellow with his hair frizzed up a foot above his head.”

”We've seen enough for the time being,” rejoined Mr. McKay quietly, ”so we'll return to the house and serve out the arms. At the rate they are travelling, the canoe will be here in ten minutes.”

”They won't injure the boat?” asked Andy anxiously, for the yawl was almost like a child to him.

”Not when they see us with rifles in our hands. Whatever you do, don't let them have reason to think we want to fight, and, above all, don't show any signs of fear.”

The party quickly strapped on their ammunition belts and revolver holsters, then, grasping their rifles, they hastened down to the beach.

The canoe had by this time entered the lagoon, and its occupants had perceived the house and the other buildings, for they had ceased paddling, and were gazing in wonder towards the sh.o.r.e. Nor did the appearance of five armed men serve to set their minds at rest.

”Hullo, there!” shouted Mr. McKay.

”Hullo, there!” was the reply. ”What's your game?”

”What's yours?” replied Mr. McKay.

”All square, governor. Can we land?”

”Provided you keep your people in order,” replied Mr. McKay, then turning to his companions he exclaimed: ”By Jove! I know that fellow; he's no good, I'm afraid.”

”You know him?”

”Yes, I met him on a pearl-fisher in Torres Strait twenty odd years ago. He hasn't changed much in appearance, and I'm afraid his manners haven't. Still, I'll not claim acquaintances.h.i.+p with him at present.”

The paddles were resumed, and the canoe glided quietly to the sh.o.r.e.

The natives, for the most part stark naked, began to tumble over the side, some grasping enormous clubs studded with sharks' teeth, and others long triple-barbed spears.

”Tell those fellows to throw those weapons back into the canoe,”

shouted Mr. McKay sternly. ”Otherwise we'll not permit them to land.”

The white man spoke a few words to the turban-haired native, who in turn uttered an order to his men. Instantly the weapons were thrown into the canoe with a loud clatter, and the natives, wading ash.o.r.e, secured their boat and proceeded to squat in a semicircle.

”My name's Blight--Jimmy Blight,” exclaimed the stranger.

Mr. McKay merely nodded his head in reply. He could not bring himself to say the words ”Pleased to see you,” for the simple reason that he was not.

Jimmy Blight had had a chequered career. He was a man of about fifty years of age, some five feet eight inches in height, and of medium build. Years of exposure to a tropical sun had not left any trace upon his face, for his complexion was a chalky white. He had a bristling, dark moustache; cut high over the lips, a scanty crop of dark hair, a thin, straight nose, rather deep-set eyes that were continually s.h.i.+fting in expression, while his hands, the broad nails of which were bitten to the quick, showed little trace of hard work.