Alex was corroborative of all that Steve said, but I could not pin
him down to hours or days. He was too exalted by his present happy
fate--penniless, jobless, family in mourning, but healthy, safe, and
full-stomached, not to omit an ebullience of spirits incited by the
continuing wonder of each new listener and the praise for his deeds
and by the conviviality of his admirers.

Alex was sure of one point, and that was that the El Dorado was
overloaded.

"Dose shkvarehet shkippers vould dake a cheese-box to sea mit a cargo
of le't," commented Steve. "All dey care for is de havin' de yob. De
owner he don't care if de vessel sink mit de insurance."

When Alex had shuffled out of the cottage, I gave the Dutchman the
course of his narrative again.

"You were safe on Easter Island, and ill from stuffing yourself with
fresh mutton," I prompted, "And now what?"

Steve spat over the rail.

"Ram, lam', sheep, und muddon for a hundred und fife days. Dere vas
noding odder. Dot's a kveer place, dot Easter Island, mit shtone gotts
lyin' round und det fulcanoes, und noding good to eat. Ve liffed in a
house de English manager gif us. Dere's a Chile meat gompany owns de
island, und grows sheep. Aboud a gouple of hundred kanakas chase de
sheep. Ve vas dreaded vell mit de vimmen makin' luff und the kanakas
glad mit it. Dere vas noding else to do. De manager he say no ship