Chapter 12 - Page 2

he left himself without soda-water for a whole
week. That old man had granted him as much land as he cared to have
cleared: it was neither more nor less than a fortune.

Whether it was fortune or seclusion from his kind that Mr. Van Wyk
sought, he could not have pitched upon a better place. Even the
mail-boats of the subsidized company calling on the veriest clusters of
palm-thatched hovels along the coast steamed past the mouth of Batu Beru
river far away in the offing. The contract was old: perhaps in a few
years' time, when it had expired, Batu Beru would be included in the
service; meantime all Mr. Van Wyk's mail was addressed to Malacca,
whence his agent sent it across once a month by the Sofala. It followed
that whenever Massy had run short of money (through taking too many
lottery tickets), or got into a difficulty about a skipper, Mr. Van Wyk
was deprived of his letter and newspapers. In so far he had a personal
interest in the fortunes of the Sofala. Though he considered himself
a hermit (and for no passing whim evidently, since he had stood eight
years of it already), he liked to know what went on in the world.

Handy on the veranda upon a walnut _etagere_ (it had come last year by the
Sofala)--everything came by the Sofala there lay, piled up under bronze
weights, a pile of the Times' weekly edition, the large sheets of the
Rotterdam Courant, the Graphic in its world-wide green wrappers, an
illustrated Dutch publication without a cover, the numbers of a German
magazine with covers of the "_Bismarck malade_" color. There were also
parcels of new music--though the piano (it had come years ago by the
Sofala in the damp atmosphere of the forests was generally out of tune.)
It was vexing to be cut off from everything for sixty days at a stretch
sometimes, without any means of knowing what was the matter. And when
the Sofala reappeared Mr. Van Wyk would descend the steps of the veranda
and stroll over the grass plot in front of his house, down to the
waterside, with a frown on his white brow.

"You've been laid up after an accident, I presume."

He addressed the bridge, but before anybody could answer Massy was sure
to have already scrambled ashore over the rail and pushed in, squeezing
the palms of his hands together, bowing his sleek head as if gummed all
over the top with black threads and tapes. And he would be so enraged
at the necessity of having to offer such an explanation that his moaning
would be positively pitiful, while all the time he tried to compose his
big lips into a smile.

"No, Mr. Van Wyk. You would not believe it. I couldn't get one of those
wretches to take the ship out. Not a single one of the lazy beasts could
be induced, and the law,