f the fever was as rotten in you as me, you'd understand," the mate
whimpered.

"I ain't kickin'," Griffiths answered. "I only wisht God'd send me a
drink, or a breeze of wind, or something. I'm ripe for my next chill
to-morrow."

The mate proffered him the quinine. Rolling a fifty-grain dose, he
popped the wad into his mouth and swallowed it dry.

"God! God!" he moaned. "I dream of a land somewheres where they ain't no
quinine. Damned stuff of hell! I've scoffed tons of it in my time."

Again he quested seaward for signs of wind. The usual trade-wind clouds
were absent, and the sun, still low in its climb to meridian, turned all
the sky to heated brass. One seemed to see as well as feel this heat,
and Griffiths sought vain relief by gazing shoreward. The white beach
was a searing ache to his eyeballs. The palm trees, absolutely still,
outlined flatly against the unrefreshing green of the packed jungle,
seemed so much cardboard scenery. The little black boys, playing
naked in the dazzle of sand and sun, were an affront and a hurt to the
sun-sick man. He felt a sort of relief when one, running, tripped and
fell on all-fours in the tepid sea-water.

An exclamation from the blacks for'ard sent both men glancing seaward.
Around the near point of land, a quarter of a mile away and skirting the
reef, a long black canoe paddled into sight.

"Gooma boys from the next bight," was the mate's verdict.

One of the blacks came aft, treading the hot deck with the unconcern of
one whose bare feet felt no heat. This, too, was a hurt to Griffiths,
and he closed his eyes. But the next moment they were open wide.

"White fella marster stop along Gooma boy," the black said.

Both men were on their feet and gazing at the canoe. Aft could be seen
the unmistakable sombrero of a white man. Quick alarm showed itself on
the face of the mate.

"It's Grief," he said.

Griffiths satisfied himself by a long look, then ripped out a wrathful
oath.

"What's he doing up here?" he demanded of the mate, of the aching sea
and sky, of the merciless blaze of sun, and of the whole superheated and
implacable universe with which his fate was entangled.

The mate began to chuckle.

"I told you you couldn't get away with it," he said.

But Griffiths was not listening.

"With all his money, coming around like a rent collector," he chanted
his outrage, almost in an ecstasy of anger. "He's loaded with money,
he's stuffed with money, he's busting