Miss Paterson shook her fluffy curls at him. They were drawing
towards dinner, and the afternoon was wearing stale.

"I did so want that idol," she said plaintively. She had the childish
quality of voice, the insipidity of intonation, which is best
appreciated in steamboat saloons. "Oh, Mr. Dawson, don't you think
you could get it back for me?"

"I'm frightfully sorry," said the contrite Dawson. "I'll go back at
once. You don't know when the ship goes, do you?"

Another of Miss Paterson's cavaliers assured him that he had some
hours yet. "The steward told me so," he added authoritatively.

"Then I'll go at once," said Dawson, hating him.

"Mind, don't lose the boat," Miss Paterson called after him.

He went swiftly back up the wide main street in which they had spent
the day. Lamps were beginning to shine everywhere, and the dull peace
of the place was broken by a new life. Those that dwell in darkness
were going abroad now, and the small saloons were filling. Dawson
noted casually that evening was evidently the lively time of
Mozambique. He passed men of a type he had missed during the day, men
of all nationalities, by their faces, and every shade of color. They
were lounging on the sidewalk in knots of two or three, sitting at
the little tables outside the saloons, or lurking at the entrances of
narrow alleys that ran aside from the main street every few paces.
All were clad in thin white suits, and some wore knives in full