Part 31 (1/2)

”If you knew why didn't you get it for yourself?”

Funnel-paint shook his head. ”Them book I got savvy--I no savvy make him tell me,” he said. ”You dash me halluf them gum you get them book.”

Austin lay silent, resting on one elbow, for a moment or two. He knew that book means anything which is written on in that country, and it occurred to him that if the gum had been hidden ash.o.r.e, it was very probable that the man who buried it had made a rough sketch or other record of the spot. The doc.u.ment, it was conceivable, might have come into the negro's possession. Still, he was suspicious.

”There's another boy who speaks English in the headman's village,” he said.

”Him only dam bushman--no savvy book, no savvy anyt'ing. Him them headman's boy. Headman he want everyt'ing.”

”Ah!” said Austin, who was more dubious about his visitor's good faith than ever, since it was clear that it was his intention to trick his confederate out of his share of the plunder. ”I suppose, since you swam off, you haven't the book about you?”

The negro let one eyelid droop a little. ”You t'ink black man one dam fool?”

”No,” said Austin, reflectively, ”if you understand me, I should rather call you an infernal rogue. Any way, you lib for get out one time, and come back to-morrow. I'll palaver with them other white man by then, savvy?”

Funnel-paint un.o.btrusively laid a wet prehensile toe upon the haft of the knife, but Austin, who was careful not to betray the fact, noticed it.

”Them other white man he do go dash me anyt'ing,” he said decisively. ”I savvy him. S'pose you done tell him you no go catch them book?”

”Then how do you fancy I'm going to give you half the gum without his knowing?”

Funnel-paint grinned unpleasantly. ”Bimeby them white cappy man he die,”

he said, as though he were sure of it. ”White man sick too much in dis country. I savvy.”

Austin contrived to hold in check the indignant wrath he felt. A man's life, he was quite aware, was worth very little in those swamps; and, because he placed some small value on the one that belonged to him, it was evidently advisable to proceed circ.u.mspectly. Funnel-paint was, he recognised, a diplomatist in his way, and had said very little, though that was sufficient to show Austin what his proposition meant. It was, at least, clear that he was to ask no questions if anything unexpected happened to Jefferson, and in reward of this he would be permitted to carry off half the gum. It appeared that Funnel-paint was sure of its existence, or he would never have ventured to creep on board at night at all, and Austin decided that since he certainly could not be trusted, the boldest course was best. The rage he felt also prompted him to it, and he lay still, considering, with a hand beneath the pillow, and a flush in his face, while the negro squatted, huge and motionless, on the door-ledge, watching him with a little cunning smile. It seemed to Austin that it would simplify matters considerably if he could secure Funnel-paint's person, though he could not quite see how it was to be done, especially since it was evident that the negro would be no use to them dead.

In the meanwhile there was deep stillness without, intensified by the oily gurgle of the creek, until Austin fancied he heard another faint and stealthy sound on deck. Funnel-paint did not appear to notice it, which was, it seemed to Austin, significant, for he sat still, though with a scarcely perceptible motion he drew the knife a little nearer to him with his toe. Austin decided that the proposition he had made was, after all, probably a blind, and the friends he had expected were now arriving.

”Keep still!” he said abruptly, whipping out the pistol.

The negro started, and would apparently have fallen backwards in his alarm had he not seized the edge of the cus.h.i.+on on the settee in a wet hand. Then he gazed at Austin as though in bewilderment or consternation.

”Bushman lib!” he said.

He glanced towards the open ring of the port, and for a second Austin turned his eyes in the same direction, but that was long enough, for the big cus.h.i.+on of the settee fell upon his head, and he rolled over under it. It was a moment or two before he had flung it from him and sprung out of his berth, and then there was no sign of Funnel-paint, though he could hear a rush of feet and the sound of a scuffle on deck. They were also booted feet, and Austin ran out into the black darkness beneath the p.o.o.p. He could see nothing for a moment, but he heard a hoa.r.s.e e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that was followed by a splash in the creek. Then a shadowy figure grew out of the blackness, and he dropped the pistol to his side at the sound of an English voice.

”All right, Mr. Austin?” it said.

”I am,” said Austin. ”Is that you, Bill?”

The half-seen man a.s.sured him that it was, and then followed him back into the lighted room, where he sat down and held up a hand from which a red trickle dripped down his arm.

”The dam brute's got away,” he said. ”P'r'aps you could fix this up for me.”

Austin lugged a little chest out from under the settee, and glanced at the injured hand. ”Nothing serious, though I have no doubt it stings,”

he said. ”You were in one sense lucky in getting it there. How did you happen to come along?”