The brig's on the swing," interrupted Lingard.
"Aye, aye! We'll try not to smash the brig. We would be lost indeed
if--fend off there, John; fend off, old reliable, if you care a pin
for your salty hide. I like the old chap," he said, when he stood by
Lingard's side looking down at the boat which was being rapidly cleared
by whites and Malays working shoulder to shoulder in silence. "I like
him. He don't belong to that yachting lot either. They picked him up
on the road somewhere. Look at the old dog--carved out of a ship's
timber--as talkative as a fish--grim as a gutted wreck. That's the man
for me. All the others there are married, or going to be, or ought
to be, or sorry they ain't. Every man jack of them has a petticoat in
tow--dash me! Never heard in all my travels such a jabber about wives
and kids. Hurry up with your dunnage--below there! Aye! I had no
difficulty in getting them to clear out from the yacht. They never saw
a pair of gents stolen before--you understand. It upset all their little
notions of what a stranding means, hereabouts. Not that mine aren't
mixed a bit, too--and yet I've seen a thing or two."
His excitement was revealed in this boyish impulse to talk.
"Look," he said, pointing at the growing pile of bags and bedding on the
brig's quarter-deck.
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