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the end (while making the bow of my tie) to suspect that perhaps I

did not get the name right. I had been thinking of the prominent



Mr. Jacobus pretty frequently during the passage and my hearing

might have been deceived by some remote similarity of sound. . .



The steward might have said Antrobus - or maybe Jackson.

But coming out of my stateroom with an interrogative "Mr. Jacobus?"



I was met by a quiet "Yes," uttered with a gentle smile. The "yes"

was rather perfunctory. He did not seem to make much of the fact



that he was Mr. Jacobus. I took stock of a big, pale face, hair

thin on the top, whiskers also thin, of a faded nondescript colour,



heavy eyelids. The thick, smooth lips in repose looked as if glued

together. The smile was faint. A heavy, tranquil man. I named my



two officers, who just then came down to breakfast; but why Mr.

Burns's silent demeanour should suggest suppressed indignation I



could not understand.

While we were taking our seats round the table some disconnected



words of an altercation going on in the companionway reached my

ear. A stranger apparently wanted to come down to interview me,



and the steward was opposing him.

"You can't see him."



"Why can't I?"

"The Captain is at breakfast, I tell you. He'll be going on shore



presently, and you can speak to him on deck."

"That's not fair. You let - "



"I've had nothing to do with that."

"Oh, yes, you have. Everybody ought to have the same chance. You



let that fellow - "

The rest I lost. The person having been repulsed successfully, the



steward came down. I can't say he looked flushed - he was a

mulatto - but he looked flustered. After putting the dishes on the



table he remained by the sideboard with that lackadaisical air of

indifference he used to assume when he had done something too



clever by half and was afraid of getting into a scrape over it.

The contemptuous expression of Mr. Burns's face as he looked from



him to me was really extraordinary. I couldn't imagine what new

bee had stung the mate now.



The Captain being silent, nobody else cared to speak, as is the way

in ships. And I was saying nothing simply because I had been made



dumb by the splendour of the entertainment. I had expected the

usual sea-breakfast, whereas I beheld spread before us a veritable



feast of shore provisions: eggs, sausages, butter which plainly

did not come from a Danish tin, cutlets, and even a dish of



potatoes. It was three weeks since I had seen a real, live potato.

I contemplated them with interest, and Mr. Jacobus disclosed



himself as a man of human, homely sympathies, and something of a

thought-reader.



"Try them, Captain," he encouraged me in a friendly undertone.

"They are excellent."



"They look that," I admitted. "Grown on the island, I suppose."

"Oh, no, imported. Those grown here would be more expensive."



I was grieved at the ineptitude of the conversation. Were these

the topics for a prominent and wealthy merchant to discuss? I



thought the simplicity with which he made himself at home rather

attractive; but what is one to talk about to a man who comes on one



suddenly, after sixty-one days at sea, out of a totally unknown

little town in an island one has never seen before? What were



(besides sugar) the interests of that crumb of the earth, its

gossip, its topics of conversation? To draw him on business at



once would have been almost indecent - or even worse: impolitic.

All I could do at the moment was to keep on in the old groove.



"Are the provisions generally dear here?" I asked, fretting

inwardly at my inanity.



"I wouldn't say that," he answered placidly, with that appearance

of saving his breath his restrained manner of speaking suggested.



He would not be more explicit, yet he did not evade the subject.

Eyeing the table in a spirit of complete abstemiousness (he



wouldn't let me help him to any eatables) he went into details of

supply. The beef was for the most part imported from Madagascar;



mutton of course was rare and somewhat expensive, but good goat's

flesh -



"Are these goat's cutlets?" I exclaimed hastily, pointing at one of

the dishes.



Posed sentimentally by the sideboard, the steward gave a start.

"Lor', no, sir! It's real mutton!"






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