| Author: | Ernest Favenc | ISBN: | 1230000169629 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing | Publication: | September 4, 2013 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Ernest Favenc |
| ISBN: | 1230000169629 |
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication: | September 4, 2013 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
A group of New Guinea boys busily engaged in cleaning pearl-shell, chattering the while, as they wield their knives, and show their strong, even teeth in frequent laughter. Fine, strapping, copper-coloured fellows, with great mops of hair dyed yellow. A white man leans against the door post, dreamily smoking; trying hard to think of nothing and succeeding tolerably well. Beyond--is as fair a view as could be seen anywhere in the thousands of miles of the long Australian coast-line.
It is the glorious winter weather of the southern tropic, and the deep blue waters of the almost land-locked strait are rippling merrily under the breath of the steady south-east monsoon. The grey hills of Prince of Wales Island stand out in striking contrast to the white sands at their feet, and the entrance to the narrow passage separating it from Friday Island is just visible, looking like the mouth of a picturesque inlet. White sails on the sea, white houses clustering here and there on the shore, make a scene gay with color and sparkling with sunshine.
"The flag's up, Tom," says a voice; "she's just rounding Goode Island," and the speaker, approaching, lays his hand on the smoker's shoulder.
"Heaps of time," returns Tom, knocking his pipe out; "but I suppose I may as well get ready."
"Take a turn on the beach first," replies the new-comer, "I have something more to tell you."
They stroll on until they stand close to the lapping wavelets kissing the shell-strewn strand, then Annett, a man some five or six years older than his partner, Tom Duckworth, speaks: "The main thing, of course, as you know, is to find out the whereabouts of Ras Mahad." Tom nodded. "Hillsden knows, but, if he won't tell, I don't exactly see how you are to make him; that is, without letting him into our confidence, and he's too big a scamp for that. But we discussed all this before. What I have to tell you is this. You remember the boy Djuran we picked up adrift on that proa, half--starved. He knows quite as much about what we want to find out as Ras Mahad himself. Comes from the same place, probably a relation of some sort. I heard last night that he was on the nor'-west coast, and it's my belief that Ras Mahad is there too, so, if you can make nothing out of Hillsden when you're down, we'll go round there and see."
"I don't see why Hillsden should refuse to tell me what he knows."
A group of New Guinea boys busily engaged in cleaning pearl-shell, chattering the while, as they wield their knives, and show their strong, even teeth in frequent laughter. Fine, strapping, copper-coloured fellows, with great mops of hair dyed yellow. A white man leans against the door post, dreamily smoking; trying hard to think of nothing and succeeding tolerably well. Beyond--is as fair a view as could be seen anywhere in the thousands of miles of the long Australian coast-line.
It is the glorious winter weather of the southern tropic, and the deep blue waters of the almost land-locked strait are rippling merrily under the breath of the steady south-east monsoon. The grey hills of Prince of Wales Island stand out in striking contrast to the white sands at their feet, and the entrance to the narrow passage separating it from Friday Island is just visible, looking like the mouth of a picturesque inlet. White sails on the sea, white houses clustering here and there on the shore, make a scene gay with color and sparkling with sunshine.
"The flag's up, Tom," says a voice; "she's just rounding Goode Island," and the speaker, approaching, lays his hand on the smoker's shoulder.
"Heaps of time," returns Tom, knocking his pipe out; "but I suppose I may as well get ready."
"Take a turn on the beach first," replies the new-comer, "I have something more to tell you."
They stroll on until they stand close to the lapping wavelets kissing the shell-strewn strand, then Annett, a man some five or six years older than his partner, Tom Duckworth, speaks: "The main thing, of course, as you know, is to find out the whereabouts of Ras Mahad." Tom nodded. "Hillsden knows, but, if he won't tell, I don't exactly see how you are to make him; that is, without letting him into our confidence, and he's too big a scamp for that. But we discussed all this before. What I have to tell you is this. You remember the boy Djuran we picked up adrift on that proa, half--starved. He knows quite as much about what we want to find out as Ras Mahad himself. Comes from the same place, probably a relation of some sort. I heard last night that he was on the nor'-west coast, and it's my belief that Ras Mahad is there too, so, if you can make nothing out of Hillsden when you're down, we'll go round there and see."
"I don't see why Hillsden should refuse to tell me what he knows."
