A straggling file of lanterns, borne by some small army, came jogging
and crowding to a halt under the walls. Yellow faces gleamed faintly,
bare heads bobbed, and men set down burdens, grunting. Among the
vanguard an angry voice scolded in a strange tongue. "_Burra suar!_" it
raged; then hailed imperiously, "_Ko hai?_"
Where the lanterns clustered brightest, an active little figure in white
waved a helmet, crying,--
"On deck! Where the devil does Maurice Heywood live?"
"I'm up here," called that young man.
For reply, the stranger began to skip among his cohorts, jerking out his
white legs like a dancing marionette. Then, with a sudden drop-kick, he
sent the helmet flickering high into the darkness over the wall.
"Here we come!" he shouted, in hilarious warning. The squabbling
retinue surged after him through the gate, and one by one the lanterns
disappeared under the covered way.
"It's the captain!" laughed Heywood, in amazement. "Kneebone--ashore! He
can't be sober!"
All stared; for Captain Kneebone, after one historically brief and
outspoken visit, had never in all these years set foot in the port.
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