“To Fiji?”
“Yes,” said Chaplin, coolly, “to Fiji, where you must remain awhile,
Lunumala.”
“And you?”
“That is my business. Question me no more now. Go below and turn in.”
Standing there before him, she looked again in his hard, unrelenting
face. Then she slowly walked forward.
“Sulky,” said Chaplin to Denison.
Steadily she walked along the deck, and then mounted to the to'gallant
fo'c's'le and stood a second or two by the cathead. Her white dress
flapped and clung to her slender figure as she turned and looked aft at
us, and her long, black hair streamed out like a pall of death. Suddenly
she sprang over.
With a curse Chaplin rushed to the wheel, and in double-quick time
the whaleboat was lowered and search was made. In half an hour Chaplin
returned, and gaining the deck said, in his usual cool way, to the mate:
“Hoist in the boat and fill away again as quick as possible.” Then he
went below.
A few minutes afterwards he was at his accustomed amusement, making
tortoise-shell ornaments with a fret-saw.
“A sad end to the poor girl's life,” said the supercargo.
“Yes,” said the methodical ex-Honolulu black-birder, “and a sad end to
my lovely five hundred dollars.”