me, Panglima Hassim,” said Lingard, seriously, “and I have had three barrels of powder put on board your prau; one for each shot. But we are not quits.”
The Malay's eyes glittered with pleasure.
“This is indeed a friend's gift. Come to see me in my country!”
“I promise,” said Lingard, “to see you—some day.”
The calm surface of the bay reflected the glorious night sky, and the brig with the prau riding astern seemed to be suspended amongst the stars in a peace that was almost unearthly in the perfection of its unstirring silence. The last hand-shakes were exchanged on deck, and the Malays went aboard their own craft. Next morning, when a breeze sprang up soon after sunrise, the brig and the prau left the bay together. When clear of the land Lingard made all sail and sheered alongside to say good-bye before parting company—the brig, of course, sailing three feet to the prau's one. Hassim stood on the high deck aft.
“Prosperous road,” hailed Lingard.
“Remember the promise!” shouted the other. “And come soon!” he went on, raising his voice as the brig forged past. “Come soon—lest what perhaps is written should come to pass!”
The brig shot ahead.
“What?” yelled Lingard in a puzzled tone, “what's written?”
He listened. And floating over the water came faintly the words:
“No one knows!”
III
“My word! I couldn't help liking the chap,” would shout Lingard when telling the story; and looking around at the eyes that glittered at him through the smoke of cheroots, this Brixham trawler-boy, afterward a youth in colliers, deep-water man, gold-digger, owner and commander of “the finest brig afloat,” knew that by his listeners—seamen, traders, adventurers like himself—this was accepted not as the expression of a feeling, but as the highest commendation he could give his Malay friend.
“By heavens! I shall go to Wajo!” he
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