is that cursed ship that was to meet us here?"
demanded Fenayrou.

"It will meet us right enough." Dubosc spoke carelessly, though behind
the blown wisp of his cigarette he had been searching the outer horizon
with keen glance. "This is the day, as agreed. We will be picked up off
the mouth of the river."

"You say," growled Perroquet. "But where is any river now? Or any mouth?
Sacred name! this wind will blow us to China if we keep on."

"We dare not lie in any closer. There is a government launch at Torrien.
Also the traders go armed hereabouts, ready for chaps like us. And don't
imagine that the native trackers have given us up. They are likely to be
following still in their proas."

"So far!"

Fenayrou laughed, for The Parrot's dread of their savage enemies had a
morbid tinge.

"Take care, Perroquet. They will eat you yet."

"Is it true?" demanded the other, appealing to Dubosc. "I have heard it
is even permitted these devils to keep all runaways they can
capture--Name of God!--to fatten on."

"An idle tale," smiled Dubosc. "They prefer the reward. But one hears of
convicts being badly mauled. There was a forester who made a break from
Baie du Sud and came back lacking an arm. Certainly these people have
not lost the habit of cannibalism."

"Piecemeal," chuckled Fenayrou. "They will only sample you, Perroquet.
Let them make a stew of your brains. You would miss nothing."

But The Parrot swore.

"Name of a name--what brutes!" he said, and by a gesture recalled the
presence of that fourth man who was of their party and yet so completely
separated from them that they had almost forgotten him.

* * * * *

The Canaque was steering the raft. He sat crouched at the stern, his
body glistening like varnished ebony with spray. He held the steering
paddle, immobile as an image, his eyes fixed upon the course ahead.

There was no trace whatever of expression on his face, no hint of what
he thought or felt or whether he thought or felt anything. He seemed not
even aware of their regard, and each one of them experienced somehow
that twinge of uneasiness with which the white always confronts his
brother of color--this enigma brown or yellow or black he is fated never
wholly to understand or to fathom....

"It occurs to me," said Fenayrou, in a pause, "that our friend here who
looks like a shiny boot is able to steer us God knows where. Perhaps to
claim the reward."

"Reassure you