The man's shoulders and
head rose high above her gunwales; loaded with Lingard's heavy frame she
would climb sturdily the steep ridges, slide squatting into the hollows
of the sea, or, now and then, take a sedate leap over a short wave. Her
behaviour had a stout trustworthiness about it, and she reminded one of
a surefooted mountain-pony carrying over difficult ground a rider much
bigger than himself.
Wasub wiped the thwarts, ranged the mast and sail along the side,
shipped the rowlocks. Lingard looked down at his old servant's spare
shoulders upon which the light from above fell unsteady but vivid. Wasub
worked for the comfort of his commander and his singleminded absorption
in that task flashed upon Lingard the consolation of an act of
friendliness. The elderly Malay at last lifted his head with a
deferential murmur; his wrinkled old face with half a dozen wiry hairs
pendulous at each corner of the dark lips expressed a kind of weary
satisfaction, and the slightly oblique worn eyes stole a discreet upward
glance containing a hint of some remote meaning. Lingard found himself
compelled by the justice of that obscure claim to murmur as he stepped
into the boat:
"These are times of danger."
He sat down and took up the sculls. Wasub held on to the gunwale as to a
last hope of a further confidence.
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