cued,
after four days of hunger and terror, by a steamship which had
carried them to Aden and put them ashore there penniless. It was here
that his tale grew vague. For something like three years he had
wandered, working on ships and ashore, always hoping that sooner or
later a chance would serve him to return to his home. Twice already
he had got to Mozambique, but that was still nearly a thousand miles
from his goal, and on each occasion his ship had carried him
inexorably back. The Anna Maria was bound for Mozambique, and he had
offered himself, with new hopes for his third attempt.

"D'ye reckon you'll do it this passage?" the seamen used to ask him
over their pipes.

He would shrug and spread his hands. "Ah, who can tell? But some
time, yais."

"An' what did ye say the name o' that place o' yours was?"

He would tell them, speaking, its syllables with soft pleasure in
their mere sound.

"Never heard of it," they always said. "Ships don't go there, Dago."

"Ah, but yais." The Dago had known ships call. "Not often, but
sometimes. There is leetle trade, an' ships come. On de tide,
floating up to anchor, so close you hear de men talkin' on de
fo'c'sle head, and dey hear de people ashore girl singin', perhaps
and smell de trees."

"Do they, though?"

"Yais. Dat night I go out to fish in de boat ah, dat night! a girl
was singin', and her voice it float on de bay all round me. An' I
stand in de boat an' take off my hat" he rose to show them the
gesture "and sing back to her, an' she is quiet to listen in de
darkness."

When dinner was over it fell to the Dago to take the "kids" back to
the galley and sweep down the deck. So he had barely time to smoke
the cigarette he made of shredded ship's tobacco rolled in a strip of
newspaper before he had to go on deck again to holystone the spilled
tar from the planks. Dan gave him advice about using a hard stone and
plenty of sand, to which he listened, smiling, and then he went up
the ladder again, with his rags shivering upon him, to the toil of
the afternoon.

The seamen were already in their bunks, each smoking ruminatively the
pipe that prefaces slumber.

"Queer yarn that feller tells," remarked one of them idly. "How much
of it d'you reckon's true, Dan?"

In the for'ard lower bunk Dan opened drowsy eyes. He was lying on his
back with his hands under his head, and the sleeves of his shirt
rolled back left bare his mighty forearms with their faded
tattooings.