“Aye, Mr. Shaw. Very good. Mind they don't board you—but I can hear nothing. Not a sound. It can't be much.”      

       “The fellow has been dreaming, no doubt. I have good ears, too, and—”      

       He went forward and the end of his sentence was lost in an indistinct growl. Lingard stood attentive. One by one the three seacannies off duty appeared on the poop and busied themselves around a big chest that stood by the side of the cabin companion. A rattle and clink of steel weapons turned out on the deck was heard, but the men did not even whisper. Lingard peered steadily into the night, then shook his head.     

       “Serang!” he called, half aloud.     

       The spare old man ran up the ladder so smartly that his bony feet did not seem to touch the steps. He stood by his commander, his hands behind his back; a figure indistinct but straight as an arrow.     

       “Who was looking out?” asked Lingard.     

       “Badroon, the Bugis,” said Wasub, in his crisp, jerky manner.     

       “I can hear nothing. Badroon heard the noise in his mind.”      

       “The night hides the boat.”      

       “Have you seen it?”      

       “Yes, Tuan. Small boat. Before sunset. By the land. Now coming here—near. Badroon heard him.”      

       “Why didn't you report it, then?” asked Lingard, sharply.     

       “Malim spoke. He said: 'Nothing there,' while I could see. How could I know what was in his mind or yours, Tuan?”      

       “Do you hear anything now?”      

       “No. They stopped now. Perhaps lost the ship—who knows? Perhaps afraid—”      

       “Well!” muttered Lingard, moving his feet uneasily. “I believe you lie. What kind of boat?”      

       “White men's boat. A four-men boat, I think. Small. Tuan, I hear him now! There!”      

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