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Margaret waved Wada in my direction as she ran to the wheel. As Mr. Pike passed the corner of the chart-house, simultaneously there was a report from amidships and the ping of a bullet against the steel wall. I saw the man who fired the shot. It was the cowboy, Steve Roberts.
Nakata, as usual, followed instructions faithfully, so that by the end of his third attack he could take a two hours' sweat, consume thirty or forty grains of quinine, and be weak but all right at the end of twenty-four hours. Wada and Henry, however, were tougher patients with which to deal. In the first place, Wada got in a bad funk.
"There are no lubber- holes in our tops." "And most likely I shall," I agreed. "I've never been aloft in my life, and since there is no hole for a lubber." She looked at me, half believing my confession of weakness, while I extended my arms for the oilskin which Wada struggled on to me. On the poop it was magnificent, and terrible, and sombre. The universe was very immediately about us.
Yoritomo repaid this loyal service by appointing Yoshiaki's son, Wada Yoshimori, to be betto of the Samurai-dokoro, one of the very highest posts in the gift of the Kamakura Government.
"A very good plan," Mr. Pike muttered. Then Miss West kindly led the talk away from that subject, and soon had us laughing with a spirited recital of a recent encounter of hers with a Boston cab-driver. Dinner over, I stepped to my room in quest of cigarettes, and incidentally asked Wada about the cook. Wada was always a great gatherer of information. "His name Louis," he said. "He Chinaman, too.
Charmian put down the wheel and steadied for the entrance. Martin threw on the engine, while all hands and the cook sprang to take in sail. A trader's house showed up in the bight of the bay. A geyser, on the shore, a hundred yards away; spouted a column of steam. To port, as we rounded a tiny point, the mission station appeared. "Three fathoms," cried Wada at the lead-line.
I notice that Wada has given me heavier underclothes and heavier pyjamas, and that Possum, of nights, is no longer content with the top of the bed but must crawl underneath the bed-clothes. We are now off the Plate, a region notorious for storms, and Mr. Pike is on the lookout for a pampero.
Also, a labourer on Penduffryn Plantation, a Malaita boy, had just died of dysentery, and Wada knew that Penduffryn had been put in the debt of Malaita by one more head. Furthermore, in stowing our luggage away in the skipper's tiny cabin, he saw the axe gashes on the door where the triumphant bushmen had cut their way in.
Yes, and in the second dog-watch last evening our three topaz- eyed dreamers sang some folk-song strangely sweet and sad. And this is mutiny! As I write I can scarcely believe it. Yet I know Mr. Pike keeps the watch over my head. I hear the shrill laughter of the steward and Louis over some ancient Chinese joke. Wada and the sail-makers, in the pantry, are, I know, talking Japanese politics.
Then Masatsura and his younger brother, Masatoki, together with Wada Katahide and other bushi, to the number of 140, made oath to conquer in fight or to die.
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