The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile "Sapper". Sapper
full speed astern with a second to spare, and his eyes still held the look of a badly-frightened man.
So we told him the story, and Temple smiled placidly in his corner. And after a while, when he'd grunted his amazement, he apologised handsomely. He went out to look at the bell, and for a while we stood on the platform. And then that skipper leant forward, peering at the inside of the bell. In silence he pointed to two dull stains—stains we had not noticed. They were just where the clapper hit the bell—one on each side, and they were a rusty red.
"Two assistants, you say?" he grunted. "God! What a death!"
I looked over, down into the blue water. Three more evil shapes were there, shapes which glided by and disappeared. And then I looked at Taba Island. Clear and beautiful in the morning sun the Queen of the Island rose to the sky. Her crown had disappeared.
VIII. — THE SEVEN MISSIONARIES
IT never really got much beyond the rumour stage—Captain James Kelly, of the s.s. Andaman, saw to that. It wouldn't have done him any good nor his line, and since England was troubled with railway strikes and war scares at Agadir, things which happened on the other side of the globe were apt to be crowded out of the newspapers.
But he couldn't stop the rumour, and "Our Special Correspondent" in Colombo made out quite a fair story for his paper at home. It didn't appear: seemingly the editor thought the poor devil had taken to drink and was raving. In fact, all that did appear in the papers were two short and apparently disconnected notices. The first ran somewhat as follows, and was found under the shipping intelligence:
"The s.s. Andaman arrived yesterday at Colombo. She remained to carry out repairs to her wireless, and will leave tomorrow for Plymouth."
And the second appeared some two or three months later.
"No news has yet been heard of the s.y. Firefly, which left Colombo some months ago for an extensive cruise in the Indian Ocean. It is feared that she may have foundered with all hands in one of the recent gales."
But she didn't—the sea was as calm as the proverbial duck-pond when the s.y. Firefly went down in the thousand fathoms of water not far from the Cocos Islands. And but for the grace of heaven and Jim Maitland that fate would have overtaken the good ship Andaman instead.
The s.s. Andaman was a vessel of some three thousand tons. She was in reality a cargo boat carrying passengers, in that passengers were the secondary consideration. There was only one class, and the accommodation was sufficient for about thirty people. Twelve knots was her maximum speed, and she quivered like a jelly if you tried to get more out of her. And last, but not least, Captain James Kelly had been her skipper for ten years, and loved her with the love only given by men who go down to the sea in ships.
When Jim and I went on board she was taking in cargo, and Kelly was busy. He was apparently having words with the harbour master over something, and the argument had reached the dangerous stage of politeness. But Jim had sailed in her before, and a minute or two later a delighted chief steward was shaking him warmly by the hand.
"This is great, sir!" he cried. "We got a wireless about the berths, but we had no idea it was from you."
"You can fix us up, Bury?" asked Jim.
"Sure thing, Mr. Maitland," answered the other. "We've only got twelve on board—two Yanks, a coloured gentleman, two ladies and a missionary bunch."
We had followed him below, and he was showing us our cabins.
"Seven of 'em, sir," he went on, "with two crates of Bibles and Prayer Books, all complete. Maybe you saw them sitting around on deck as you came on board?"
"Can't say I did, Bury," said Jim indifferently.
"They never go ashore, sir," continued the steward. "We've been making all the usual calls, and you'd have thought they'd have liked to go ashore and stretch their legs, but devil a bit. There they sit from morning till night, reading and praying, till they fairly give you the hump."
"It doesn't sound like one long scream of excitement," said Jim. "But if they're happy, that's all that matters. Come on, Dick, let's go up and see if old man Kelly is still being polite."
We went on deck to find that the argument was finished, and with a shout of delight the skipper recognised Jim. Jim went forward to meet him, and for a moment or two I stood where I was, idly watching the scene on the quay. And then quite distinctly I heard a voice from behind me say, "By God, it's Jim Maitland!" Now, as a remark it was so ordinary, so completely expected when Jim was about, that I never gave it a thought. In those parts of the world one heard it or its equivalent whenever one entered an hotel or even a railway carriage. And so, as I say, I didn't give it a thought for a moment or two, till Jim's voice hailed me, and I turned round to go and be introduced to the skipper.
It was then that I noticed two benevolent-looking clergymen seated close to me in two deck-chairs. Their eyes were fixed on the skipper and on Jim, while two open Bibles adorned their knees. Not another soul was in sight: there was not the slightest doubt in my mind that it was one of them who had spoken. And as I stood talking with the skipper and Jim my mind was subconsciously working.
There was no reason, to be sure, why a missionary should not recognise Jim, but somehow or other one does not expect a devout man with a Bible lying open on his knee to invoke the name of the Almighty quite so glibly. If he had said "Dear me!" or "Good gracious!" it would have been different. But the other came as almost a shock. However, the matter was a small one, and I should probably have dismissed it from my mind, but for the sequel a minute or so later. The skipper was called away on some matter, and Jim and I strolled back past the two parsons. They both looked up at us with mild interest as we passed, but neither of them gave the faintest sign of recognition.
Now that did strike me as strange. A clergyman may swear if he likes—in fact, I am given to understand that they frequently do; but why in the name of fortune he should utterly ignore a man whom he evidently knew was beyond me.
"Come and lean over the side, Jim," I said when we were out of earshot. "There's something a little funny I want to tell you. Only don't look round."
He listened in silence, and when I had finished he shrugged his shoulders.
"More people know Tom Fool, old boy, than Tom Fool knows. I certainly don't know either of those two sportsmen, but it's more than likely they know me, at any rate by sight. And wouldn't you swear if you had to wear a dog collar in this heat?"
Evidently Jim was inclined to dismiss the episode as trifling, and after a time I came round to the same view. Even at lunch that day, when the skipper was formally introducing us and the clergyman still gave no sign of claiming any previous acquaintance with Jim, I thought no more about it. Possibly to substantiate that claim he might have had to admit his presence in some place which would take a bit of explaining away to his little flock. For the man whose voice I had heard was evidently the shining light of the bunch.
He turned out to be the Reverend Samuel Longfellow, and his destination, as that of all the others, was Colombo. They were going to open a missionary house somewhere in the interior of Ceylon and run it on novel lines of their own. Apparently no such place existed belonging to their particular denomination, but at that point Jim and I got out of our depths and the conversation languished. However, they seemed very decent fellows, even if they did fail somewhat signally to add to the general gaiety.
* * * * *
The voyage pursued its quiet normal course for the first four or five days. The two Americans and the skipper made up the necessary numbers for a game of poker; the two ladies—mother and daughter they were, by the name of Armstrong—knitted; the seven parsons prayed; and the coloured gentleman effaced himself. The weather was perfect; the sea like a mill- pond, with every prospect of continuing so for some time. And so we lazed along at our twelve knots, making a couple of final calls before starting on the