," the priest accosted him, with a light tap on the
shoulder. "You'll die the sooner if you take your hat off. But you'll
die anyhow if you go on sitting here."

At his touch the mate looked round sharply. The tall white-clad
Father, under his green-lined sun umbrella, rested a steady look on
his face.

"You're in trouble, I'm afraid," said the priest. "Is there anything
a man can do for you?"

"No!" The word came hoarsely but curt from the mate's throat. "Leave
me alone!"

The tall priest nodded. "Nothing a man can do, eh?" he said. "Well,
then you know who can help you, don't you?"

The miserable rebellious eyes of the young man hardened.

"Leave me alone," he growled. "Say, you're a kind of a missionary,
ain't you? Well, I don't want none of your blasted cant, see?"

The Father smiled. "I know how you feel. My name is Father Bates, and
anyone will show you where I live. Bates don't forget! And I really
wouldn't sit much longer in that sun, if I were you."

A sound like a snarl was his answer as he passed on. Looking back
before he turned the corner, he saw that the mate had returned to his
old posture, brooding in his strange and secret sorrow over the
irresponsive sea.

He was still there at sunset when the schooner went out, holding
himself apart from the little group of Beira people who halted to
watch her departure. Upon her poop a couple of figures were plain to
sight, and one of these waved a hand towards the shore as though to
bid farewell to the man they left behind. The mate, however, made no
response. He watched unmoving while she approached the heads and
glided from view, her slender topmasts lingering in sight over the
dull green of the mangroves, with the sunset flush lighting them
delicately. Then she was gone, like a silent visitor who withdraws a
presence that has scarcely been felt.

The mate crossed the road and addressed the man who stood nearest.

"Where's the deepo?" he demanded, abruptly. "The railway station."

The other gave directions which the mate heard, frowning. Then,
without thanking his guide, he turned to walk heavily through the
foot-clogging sand in the direction indicated.

It was a hundred and fifty miles up the line that he next emerged to
notice, at Mendigos, that outpost set in the edge of the jungle,
where the weary telegraphists sweat through the sunny monotony of the
days and are shaken at night by the bitter agues that infest the
land.

The mate dropped fr