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Jerry of the Islands-Part13_JACK LONDON(1876-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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master, her eyes large with fright; nor did the trembling of her

body cease for a long time after he had made her lie down. The



phonograph meant nothing to her. She knew only fear--fear of this

terrible white man that she was certain was destined to eat her.



Jerry left the caressing hand of Skipper for a moment to go over and

sniff her. This was an act of duty. He was identifying her once



again. No matter what happened, no matter what months or years

might elapse, he would know her again and for ever know her again.



He returned to the free hand of Skipper that resumed its caressing.

The other hand held the cigar which he was smoking.



The wet sultry heat grew more oppressive. The air was nauseous with

the dank mucky odour that cooked out of the mangrove swamp.



Rowelled by the squeaky music to recollection of old-world ports and

places, Borckman lay on his face on the hot planking, beat a tattoo



with his naked toes, and gutturally muttered an unending monologue

of curses. But Van Horn, with Jerry panting under his hand,



placidly and philosophically continued to smoke, lighting a fresh

cigar when the first gave out.



He roused abruptly at the faint wash of paddles which he was the

first on board to hear. In fact, it was Jerry's low growl and neck-



rippling of hair that had keyed Van Horn to hear. Pulling the stick

of dynamite out from the twist of his loin cloth and glancing at the



cigar to be certain it was alight, he rose to his feet with

leisurelyswiftness and with leisurelyswiftness gained the rail.



"What name belong you?" was his challenge to the dark.

"Me fella Ishikola," came the answer in the quavering falsetto of



age.

Van Horn, before speaking again, loosened his automaticpistol half



out of its holster, and slipped the holster around from his hip till

it rested on his groin conveniently close to his hand.



"How many fella boy stop along you?" he demanded.

"One fella ten-boy altogether he stop," came the aged voice.



"Come alongside then." Without turning his head, his right hand

unconsciously dropping close to the butt of the automatic, Van Horn



commanded: "You fella Tambi. Fetch 'm lantern. No fetch 'm this

place. Fetch 'm aft along mizzen rigging and look sharp eye belong



you."

Tambi obeyed, exposing the lantern twenty feet away from where his



captain stood. This gave Van Horn the advantage over the

approaching canoe-men, for the lantern, suspended through the barbed



wire across the rail and well down, would clearly illuminate the

occupants of the canoe while he was left in semi-darkness and



shadow.

"Washee-washee!" he urged peremptorily, while those in the invisible



canoe still hesitated.

Came the sound of paddles, and, next, emerging into the lantern's



area of light, the high, black bow of a war canoe, curved like a

gondola, inlaid with silvery-glistening mother-of-pearl; the long



lean length of the canoe which was without outrigger; the shining

eyes and the black-shining bodies of the stark blacks who knelt in



the bottom and paddled; Ishikola, the old chief, squatting amidships

and not paddling, an unlighted, empty-bowled, short-stemmed clay



pipe upside-down between his toothless gums; and, in the stern, as

coxswain, the dandy, all nakedness of blackness, all whiteness of



decoration, save for the pig's tail in one ear and the scarlet

hibiscus that still flamed over the other ear.



Less than ten blacks had been known to rush a blackbirder officered

by no more than two white men, and Van Horn's hand closed on the



butt of his automatic, although he did not pull it clear of the

holster, and although, with his left hand, he directed the cigar to



his mouth and puffed it livelyalight.

"Hello, Ishikola, you blooming old blighter," was Van Horn's



greeting to the old chief, as the dandy, with a pry of his steering-

paddle against the side of the canoe and part under its bottom,



brought the dug-out broadside-on to the Arangi so that the sides of

both crafts touched.



Ishikola smiled upward in the lantern light. He smiled with his

right eye, which was all he had, the left having been destroyed by



an arrow in a youthfuljungle-skirmish.

"My word!" he greeted back. "Long time you no stop eye belong me."






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