"How are you, gentlemen?" said Motley affably, turning from Taplin and
his wife, and advancing towards us. "Captain Riedermann and I saw the
spars of your brig showing up over the coconuts yesterday, and
therefore knew we should have the pleasure of meeting you."

Warren looked steadily at him for a moment, and then glanced at his
outstretched hand.

"The pleasure isn't mutual, blarst you, Mr Motley," he said coldly, and
he put his hand in his pocket.

The supercargo took a step nearer to him with a savage glare in his
blue eyes. "What do you mean by this, Captain Warren?"

"Mean?" and the imperturbable Warren seated himself on a corner of the
table, and gazed stolidly first at the handsome Motley and then at the
heavy, vicious features of Riedermann. "Oh, anything you like. Perhaps
it's because it's not pleasant to see white men landing at a quiet
island like this with revolvers slung to their waists under their
pyjamas; looks a bit too much like Bully Hayes' style for me," and then
his tone of cool banter suddenly changed to that of studied insolence.
"I say, Motley, I was talking about you just now to Taplin AND Nerida.
Do you want to know what I was saying? Perhaps I had better tell you. I
was talking about Tita Raymond--and yourself."


* * * * *


Motley put his right hand under his pyjama jacket, but Taplin sprang