Part 11 (2/2)

She was a little shy, but not more shy than Bateman, to whom the whole situation was highly embarra.s.sing, and it did not put him at his ease to see this sylph-like thing take a shaker and with a practised hand mix three c.o.c.ktails.

”Let us have a kick in them, child,” said Jackson.

She poured them out and smiling delightfully handed one to each of the men. Bateman flattered himself on his skill in the subtle art of shaking c.o.c.ktails and he was not a little astonished, on tasting this one, to find that it was excellent. Jackson laughed proudly when he saw his guest's involuntary look of appreciation.

”Not bad, is it? I taught the child myself, and in the old days in Chicago I considered that there wasn't a bar-tender in the city that could hold a candle to me. When I had nothing better to do in the penitentiary I used to amuse myself by thinking out new c.o.c.ktails, but when you come down to bra.s.s-tacks there's nothing to beat a dry Martini.”

Bateman felt as though someone had given him a violent blow on the funny-bone and he was conscious that he turned red and then white. But before he could think of anything to say a native boy brought in a great bowl of soup and the whole party sat down to dinner. Arnold Jackson's remark seemed to have aroused in him a train of recollections, for he began to talk of his prison days. He talked quite naturally, without malice, as though he were relating his experiences at a foreign university. He addressed himself to Bateman and Bateman was confused and then confounded. He saw Edward's eyes fixed on him and there was in them a flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt. He blushed scarlet, for it struck him that Jackson was making a fool of him, and then because he felt absurd--and knew there was no reason why he should--he grew angry. Arnold Jackson was impudent--there was no other word for it--and his callousness, whether a.s.sumed or not, was outrageous. The dinner proceeded. Bateman was asked to eat sundry messes, raw fish and he knew not what, which only his civility induced him to swallow, but which he was amazed to find very good eating. Then an incident happened which to Bateman was the most mortifying experience of the evening. There was a little circlet of flowers in front of him, and for the sake of conversation he hazarded a remark about it.

”It's a wreath that Eva made for you,” said Jackson, ”but I guess she was too shy to give it you.”

Bateman took it up in his hand and made a polite little speech of thanks to the girl.

”You must put it on,” she said, with a smile and a blush.

”I? I don't think I'll do that.”

”It's the charming custom of the country,” said Arnold Jackson.

There was one in front of him and he placed it on his hair. Edward did the same.

”I guess I'm not dressed for the part,” said Bateman, uneasily.

”Would you like a _pareo_?” said Eva quickly. ”I'll get you one in a minute.”

”No, thank you. I'm quite comfortable as I am.”

”Show him how to put it on, Eva,” said Edward.

At that moment Bateman hated his greatest friend. Eva got up from the table and with much laughter placed the wreath on his black hair.

”It suits you very well,” said Mrs Jackson. ”Don't it suit him, Arnold?”

”Of course it does.”

Bateman sweated at every pore.

”Isn't it a pity it's dark?” said Eva. ”We could photograph you all three together.”

Bateman thanked his stars it was. He felt that he must look prodigiously foolish in his blue serge suit and high collar--very neat and gentlemanly--with that ridiculous wreath of flowers on his head. He was seething with indignation, and he had never in his life exercised more self-control than now when he presented an affable exterior. He was furious with that old man, sitting at the head of the table, half-naked, with his saintly face and the flowers on his handsome white locks. The whole position was monstrous.

Then dinner came to an end, and Eva and her mother remained to clear away while the three men sat on the verandah. It was very warm and the air was scented with the white flowers of the night. The full moon, sailing across an unclouded sky, made a pathway on the broad sea that led to the boundless realms of Forever. Arnold Jackson began to talk.

His voice was rich and musical. He talked now of the natives and of the old legends of the country. He told strange stories of the past, stories of hazardous expeditions into the unknown, of love and death, of hatred and revenge. He told of the adventurers who had discovered those distant islands, of the sailors who, settling in them, had married the daughters of great chieftains, and of the beach-combers who had led their varied lives on those silvery sh.o.r.es. Bateman, mortified and exasperated, at first listened sullenly, but presently some magic in the words possessed him and he sat entranced. The mirage of romance obscured the light of common day. Had he forgotten that Arnold Jackson had a tongue of silver, a tongue by which he had charmed vast sums out of the credulous public, a tongue which very nearly enabled him to escape the penalty of his crimes? No one had a sweeter eloquence, and no one had a more acute sense of climax. Suddenly he rose.

”Well, you two boys haven't seen one another for a long time. I shall leave you to have a yarn. Teddie will show you your quarters when you want to go to bed.”

”Oh, but I wasn't thinking of spending the night, Mr Jackson,” said Bateman.

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