within the tides-第16部分

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Malay　sarong　of　chequered　pattern　which　the　planter　of　Malata　was



well　known　to　wear　when　going　to　bathe。　　These　things　made　a　little



heap；　and　the　sailor　remarked；　after　gazing　at　it　in　silence　…







〃Birds　have　been　hovering　over　this　for　many　a　day。〃







〃He's　gone　bathing　and　got　drowned；〃　cried　the　Editor　in　dismay。







〃I　doubt　it；　sir。　　If　he　had　been　drowned　anywhere　within　a　mile



from　the　shore　the　body　would　have　been　washed　out　on　the　reefs。



And　our　boats　have　found　nothing　so　far。〃







Nothing　was　ever　found　…　and　Renouard's　disappearance　remained　in



the　main　inexplicable。　　For　to　whom　could　it　have　occurred　that　a



man　would　set　out　calmly　to　swim　beyond　the　confines　of　life　…　with



a　steady　stroke　…　his　eyes　fixed　on　a　star！







Next　evening；　from　the　receding　schooner；　the　Editor　looked　back



for　the　last　time　at　the　deserted　island。　　A　black　cloud　hung



listlessly　over　the　high　rock　on　the　middle　hill；　and　under　the



mysterious　silence　of　that　shadow　Malata　lay　mournful；　with　an　air



of　anguish　in　the　wild　sunset；　as　if　remembering　the　heart　that　was



broken　there。











Dec。　1913。



















THE　PARTNER



















〃And　that　be　hanged　for　a　silly　yarn。　　The　boatmen　here　in　Westport



have　been　telling　this　lie　to　the　summer　visitors　for　years。　　The



sort　that　gets　taken　out　for　a　row　at　a　shilling　a　head　…　and　asks



foolish　questions　…　must　be　told　something　to　pass　the　time　away。



D'ye　know　anything　more　silly　than　being　pulled　in　a　boat　along　a



beach？　。　。　。　It's　like　drinking　weak　lemonade　when　you　aren't



thirsty。　　I　don't　know　why　they　do　it！　　They　don't　even　get　sick。〃







A　forgotten　glass　of　beer　stood　at　his　elbow；　the　locality　was　a



small　respectable　smoking…room　of　a　small　respectable　hotel；　and　a



taste　for　forming　chance　acquaintances　accounts　for　my　sitting　up



late　with　him。　　His　great；　flat；　furrowed　cheeks　were　shaven；　a



thick；　square　wisp　of　white　hairs　hung　from　his　chin；　its　waggling



gave　additional　point　to　his　deep　utterance；　and　his　general



contempt　for　mankind　with　its　activities　and　moralities　was



expressed　in　the　rakish　set　of　his　big　soft　hat　of　black　felt　with



a　large　rim；　which　he　kept　always　on　his　head。







His　appearance　was　that　of　an　old　adventurer；　retired　after　many



unholy　experiences　in　the　darkest　parts　of　the　earth；　but　I　had



every　reason　to　believe　that　he　had　never　been　outside　England。



From　a　casual　remark　somebody　dropped　I　gathered　that　in　his　early



days　he　must　have　been　somehow　connected　with　shipping　…　with　ships



in　docks。　　Of　individuality　he　had　plenty。　　And　it　was　this　which



attracted　my　attention　at　first。　　But　he　was　not　easy　to　classify；



and　before　the　end　of　the　week　I　gave　him　up　with　the　vague



definition；　〃an　imposing　old　ruffian。〃







One　rainy　afternoon；　oppressed　by　infinite　boredom；　I　went　into　the



smoking…room。　　He　was　sitting　there　in　absolute　immobility；　which



was　really　fakir…like　and　impressive。　　I　began　to　wonder　what　could



be　the　associations　of　that　sort　of　man；　his　〃milieu；〃　his　private



connections；　his　views；　his　morality；　his　friends；　and　even　his



wife　…　when　to　my　surprise　he　opened　a　conversation　in　a　deep；



muttering　voice。







I　must　say　that　since　he　had　learned　from　somebody　that　I　was　a



writer　of　stories　he　had　been　acknowledging　my　existence　by　means



of　some　vague　growls　in　the　morning。







He　was　essentially　a　taciturn　man。　　There　was　an　effect　of　rudeness



in　his　fragmentary　sentences。　　It　was　some　time　before　I　discovered



that　what　he　would　be　at　was　the　process　by　which　stories　…　stories



for　periodicals　…　were　produced。







What　could　one　say　to　a　fellow　like　that？　　But　I　was　bored　to



death；　the　weather　continued　impossible；　and　I　resolved　to　be



amiable。







〃And　so　you　make　these　tales　up　on　your　own。　　How　do　they　ever　come



into　your　head？〃　he　rumbled。







I　explained　that　one　generally　got　a　hint　for　a　tale。







〃What　sort　of　hint？〃







〃Well；　for　instance；〃　I　said；　〃I　got　myself　rowed　out　to　the　rocks



the　other　day。　　My　boatman　told　me　of　the　wreck　on　these　rocks



nearly　twenty　years　ago。　　That　could　be　used　as　a　hint　for　a　mainly



descriptive　bit　of　story　with　some　such　title　as　'In　the　Channel；'



for　instance。〃







It　was　then　that　he　flew　out　at　the　boatmen　and　the　summer　visitors



who　listen　to　their　tales。　　Without　moving　a　muscle　of　his　face　he



emitted　a　powerful　〃Rot；〃　from　somewhere　out　of　the　depths　of　his



chest；　and　went　on　in　his　hoarse；　fragmentary　mumble。　　〃Stare　at



the　silly　rocks　…　nod　their　silly　heads　＇the　visitors；　I　presume＇。



What　do　they　think　a　man　is　…　blown…out　paper　bag　or　what？　…　go　off



pop　like　that　when　he's　hit　…　Damn　silly　yarn　…　Hint　indeed！　。　。　。



A　lie？〃







You　must　imagine　this　statuesque　ruffian　enhaloed　in　the　black　rim



of　his　hat；　letting　all　this　out　as　an　old　dog　growls　sometimes；



with　his　head　up　and　staring…away　eyes。







〃Indeed！〃　I　exclaimed。　　〃Well；　but　even　if　untrue　it　IS　a　hint；



enabling　me　to　see　these　rocks；　this　gale　they　speak　of；　the　heavy



seas；　etc。；　etc。；　in　relation　to　mankind。　　The　struggle　against



natural　forces　and　the　effect　of　the　issue　on　at　least　one；　say；



exalted　…　〃







He　interrupted　me　by　an　aggressive　…







〃Would　truth　be　any　good　to　you？〃







〃I　shouldn't　like　to　say；〃　I　answered；　cautiously。　　〃It's　said　that



truth　is　stranger　than　fiction。〃







〃Who　says　that？〃　he　mouthed。







〃Oh！　　Nobody　in　particular。〃







I　turned　to　the　window；　for　the　contemptuous　beggar　was　oppressive



to　look　at；　with　his　immovable　arm　on　the　table。　　I　suppose　my



unceremonious　manner　provoked　him　to　a　comparatively　long　speech。







〃Did　you　ever　see　such　a　silly　lot　of　rocks？　　Like　plums　in　a　slice



of　cold　pudding。〃







I　was　looking　at　them　…　an　acre　or　more　of　black　dots　scattered　on



the　steel…grey　shades　of　the　level　sea；　under　the　uniform　gossamer



grey　mist　with　a　formless　brighter　patch　in　one　place　…　the　veiled



whiteness　of　the　cliff　coming　through；　like　a　diffused；　mysterious



radiance。　　It　was　a　delicate　and　wonderful　picture；　something



expressive；　suggestive；　and　desolate；　a　symphony　in　grey　and　black



…　a　Whistler。　　But　the　next　thing　said　by　the　voice　behind　me　made



me　turn　round。　　It　growled　out　contempt　for　all　associated　notions



of　roaring　seas　with　concise　energy；　then　went　on　…







〃I　…　no　such　foolishness　…　looking　at　the　rocks　out　there　…　more



likely　call　to　mind　an　office　…　I　used　to　look　in　sometimes　at　one



time　…　office　in　London　…　one　of　them　small　streets　behind　Cannon



Street　Station。　。　。　〃







He　was　very　deliberate；　not　jerky；　only　fragmentary；　at　times



profane。







〃That's　a　rather　remote　connection；〃　I　observed；　approaching　him。







〃Connection？　　To　Hades　with　your　connections。　　It　was　an　accident。〃







〃Still；〃　I　said；　〃an　accident　has　its　backward　and　forward



connections；　which；　if　they　could　be　set　forth　…　〃







Without　moving　he　seemed　to　lend　an　attentive　ear。







〃Aye！　　Set　forth。　　That's　perhaps　what　you　could　do。　　Couldn't　you



now？　　There's　no　sea　life　in　this　connection。　　But　you　can　put　it



in　out　of　your　head　…　if　you　like。〃







〃Yes。　　I　could；　if　necessary；〃　I　said。　　〃Sometimes　it　pays　to　put



in　a　lot　out　of　one's　head；　and　sometimes　it　doesn't。　　I　mean　that



the　story　isn't　worth　it。　　Everything's　in　that。〃







It　amused　me　to　talk　to　him　like　this。　　He　reflected　audibly　that



he　guessed　story…writers　were　out　after　money　like　the　rest　of　the



world　which　had　to　live　by　its　wits：　　and　that　it　was　extraordinary



how　far　people　who　were　out　after　money　would　go。　。　。　Some　of　them。







Then　he　made　a　sally　against　sea　life。　　Silly　sort　of　life；　he



called　it。　　No　opportunities；　no　experience；　no　variety；　nothing。



Some　fine　men　came　out　of　it　…　he　admitted　…　but　no　more　chance　in



the　world　if　put　to　it　than　fly。　　Kids。　　So　Captain　Harry　Dunbar。



Good　sailor。　　Great　name　as　a　skipper。　　Big　man；　short　side…



whiskers　going　grey；　fine　face；　loud　voice。　　A　good　fellow；　but　no



more　up　to　people's　tricks　than　a　baby。







〃That's　the　captain　of　the　Sagamore　you're　talking　about；〃　I　said；



confidently。







After　a　low；　scornful　〃Of　course〃　he　seemed　now　to　hold　on　the　wall



with　his　fixed　stare　the　vision　of　that　city　office；　〃at　the　back



of　Cannon　Street　Station；〃　while　he　growled　and　mouthed　a



fragmentary　description；　jerking　his　chin　up　now　and　then；　as　if



angry。







It　was；　according　to　his　account；　a　modest　place　of　business；　not



shady　in　any　sense；　but　out　of　the　way；　in　a　small　street　now



rebuilt　from　end　to　end。　　〃Seven　doors　from　the　Cheshire　Cat　public



house　under　the　railway　bridge。　　I　used　to　take　my　lunch　there　when



my　business　called　me　to　the　city。　　Cloete　would　come　in　to　have



his　chop　and　make　the　girl　laugh。　　No　need　to　talk　much；　either；



for　that。　　Nothing　but　the　way　he　would　twinkle　his　spectacles　on



you　and　give　a　twitch　of　his　thick　mouth　was　enough　to　start　you



off　before　he　began　one　of　his　little　tales。　　Funny　fellow；　Cloete。



C…l…o…e…t…e　…　Cloete。〃







〃What　was　he　…　a　Dutchman？〃　I　asked；　not　seeing　in　the　least　what



all　this　had　to　do　with　the　Westport　boatmen　and　the　Westport



summer　visitors　and　this　extraordinary　old　fellow's　irritable　view



of　them　as　liars　and　fools。　　〃Devil　knows；〃　he　grunted；　his　eyes　on



the　wall　as　if　not　to　miss　a　single　movement　of　a　cinematograph



picture。　　〃Spoke　nothing　but　English；　anyway。　　First　I　saw　him　…



comes　off　a　ship　in　dock　from　the　States　…　passenger。　　Asks　me　for



a　small　hotel　near　by。　　Wanted　to　be　quiet　and　have　a　look　round



for　a　few　days。　　I