had not been in the United States and had not
yet imbibed any great contempt for coloured people. They were on the
whole infinitely more interesting than the Irish. I knew nothing of the
world, nothing of the Orient, and here was an Oriental microcosm. The
old serang, or bo'sun, was a gnarled and knotted and withered Malay, who
took rather a fancy to me. Sometimes I sat in his berth and smoked a
pipe with him. At other times I deciphered the wooden tallies for the
sails in the sail-locker, for though he talked something which he
believed to be English, he could not read a word, even in the
Persi-Arabic character. The cooks, or _bandaddies_, were also friends
of mine, and more than once they supplemented the intolerably meagre
steerage fare by giving me something good to eat. I soon knew every man
in the crew, and could call each by his name. Sometimes I went on the
lookout with one of them, and one particular Malay was very keen on
teaching me his language. So far as I remember the languages talked by
the crew included Malay, Hindustani, Tamil and, oddly enough, French.
That language was of course spoken by someone who came from Pondicherry,
that small piece of country which, with Chandernagor, represents the
French-Indian Empire of Du Plessis's time. I had learnt a little
Hindustani and Malay, and could understand all the usual names of the
sails and gear before I discovered that there was someone on board whose
native tongue was French, or who, at anyrate, could talk it fluently
enough. We were far to the south of the Line before I found this out.
For, of course, among his fellows the boy from Pondicherry spoke
Hindustani mixed with Malay and perhaps with Tamil. I well remember how
I made the discovery. It was odd enough to me, but far stranger, far
more wonderful, far more full of mystery to my little, excitable and
very dark-skinned friend. I daresay, if he lives, that to this hour he
remembers the English boy who so surprised him.

The weather was intensely hot and I had climbed for a little air into
one of the boats lying in the skids. The shadow of the main-topsail
screened me from the sun; there was just enough wind to keep the canvas
doing its work in silence. It was Sunday and the whole ship was
curiously quiet. But as I lay in my little shelter I was presently
disturbed by Pondicherry (that was what he was called by everyone), who
came where I was to fetch away a plate full of some occult mystery which
he had