CHAPTER II--SOMETHING IS DONE


In the morning David Sheldon decided that he was worse. That he was
appreciably weaker there was no doubt, and there were other symptoms that
were unfavourable. He began his rounds looking for trouble. He wanted
trouble. In full health, the strained situation would have been serious
enough; but as it was, himself growing helpless, something had to be
done. The blacks were getting more sullen and defiant, and the
appearance of the men the previous night on his veranda--one of the
gravest of offences on Berande--was ominous. Sooner or later they would
get him, if he did not get them first, if he did not once again sear on
their dark souls the flaming mastery of the white man.

He returned to the house disappointed. No opportunity had presented
itself of making an example of insolence or insubordination--such as had
occurred on every other day since the sickness smote Berande. The fact
that none had offended was in itself suspicious. They were growing
crafty. He regretted that he had not waited the night before until the
prowlers had entered. Then he might have shot one or two and given the
rest a new lesson, writ in red, for them to con. It was one man against
two hundred, and he was horribly afraid of his sickness overpowering him
and leaving him at their mercy. He saw visions of the blacks taking
charge of the plantation, looting the store, burning the buildings, and
escaping to Malaita. Also, one gruesome vision he caught of his own
head, sun-dried and smoke-cured, ornamenting the canoe house of a
cannibal village. Either the _Jessie_ would have to arrive, or he would
have to do something.

The bell had hardly rung, sending the labourers into the fields, when