Конец рабства
VI
......
“Canyoumakeouttheclumpofpalmsyet,Serang?”askedCaptainWhalleyfromhischaironthebridgeoftheSofalaapproachingthebarofBatuBeru.
“No,Tuan.By-and-bysee.”TheoldMalay,inabluedungareesuit,plantedonhisbonydarkfeetunderthebridgeawning,puthishandsbehindhisbackandstaredaheadoutoftheinnumerablewrinklesatthecornersofhiseyes.
CaptainWhalleysatstill,withoutliftinghisheadtolookforhimself.Threeyears—thirty-sixtimes.Hehadmadethesepalmsthirty-sixtimesfromthesouthward.Theywouldcomeintoviewatthepropertime.ThankGod,theoldshipmadehercoursesanddistancestripaftertrip,ascorrectasclockwork.Atlasthemurmuredagain—
“Insightyet?”
“Thesunmakesaverygreatglare,Tuan.”
“Watchwell,Serang.”
“Ya,Tuan.”
Awhitemanhadascendedtheladderfromthedecknoiselessly,andhadlistenedquietlytothisshortcolloquy.Thenhesteppedoutonthebridgeandbegantowalkfromendtoend,holdingupthelongcherrywoodstemofapipe.Hisblackhairlayplasteredinlonglankywispsacrossthebaldsummitofhishead;hehadafurrowedbrow,ayellowcomplexion,andathickshapelessnose.Ascantygrowthofwhiskerdidnotconcealthecontourofhisjaw.Hisaspectwasofbroodingcare;andsuckingatacurvedblackmouthpiece,hepresentedsuchaheavyoverhangingprofilethateventheSerangcouldnothelpreflectingsometimesupontheextremeunlovelinessofsomewhitemen.
CaptainWhalleyseemedtobracehimselfupinhischair,butgavenorecognitionwhatevertohispresence.
