When
clear of the land Lingard made all sail and sheered alongside to say
good-bye before parting company--the brig, of course, sailing three feet
to the prau's one. Hassim stood on the high deck aft.
"Prosperous road," hailed Lingard.
"Remember the promise!" shouted the other. "And come soon!" he went on,
raising his voice as the brig forged past. "Come soon--lest what perhaps
is written should come to pass!"
The brig shot ahead.
"What?" yelled Lingard in a puzzled tone, "what's written?"
He listened. And floating over the water came faintly the words:
"No one knows!"
III
"My word! I couldn't help liking the chap," would shout Lingard when
telling the story; and looking around at the eyes that glittered at him
through the smoke of cheroots, this Brixham trawler-boy, afterward a
youth in colliers, deep-water man, gold-digger, owner and commander of
"the finest brig afloat," knew that by his listeners--seamen, traders,
adventurers like himself--this was accepted not as the expression of a
feeling, but as the highest commendation he could give his Malay friend.
"By heavens! I shall go to Wajo!" he cried, and a semicircle of
heads nodded grave approbation while a slightly ironical voice said
deliberately--"You are a made man, Tom, if you get on the right side of
that Rajah of yours.
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