THE DAGO

By Perceval Gibbon

      Eight bells had sounded, and in the little triangular fo’c’sle of the Anna Maria the men of the port watch were waiting for their dinner. The daylight which entered by the open hatch overhead spread a carpet of light at the foot of the ladder, which slid upon the deck to the heave and fall of the old barque’s blunt bows, and left in shadow the double row of bunks and the chests on which the men sat. From his seat nearest the ladder, Bill, the ship’s inevitable Cockney, raised his flat voice in complaint.

“That bloomin’ Dago takes ‘is time over fetchin’ the hash,” he said.

“’E wants wakin’ up a bit that’s wot ‘e wants.”

Sprawling on the edge of his bunk forward, Dan, the oldest man in the ship, took his pipe from his lips in the deliberate way in which he did everything. Short in stature and huge in frame, the mass of him, even in that half-darkness of the fo’c’sle, showed somehow majestic and powerful.

“The mate came after ‘im about somethin’ or other,” he said in his deep, slow tones.

“That’s right,” said another seaman. “It was about spillin’ some tar on the deck, an’ now the Dago’s got to stop up this arternoon an’ holystone it clean in his watch below.”

“Bloomin’ fool,” growled the Cockney. But it was the wrong word, and the others were silent.

A man in trouble with an officer, though he be no seaman and a Dago, may always count on the sympathy of the fo’c’sle.

“’E ain’t fit to paddle a bumboat,” the Cockney went on. “Can’t go aloft, can’t stand ‘is wheel, can’t even fetch the hash to time.”

“Yes!” Dan shifted slowly, and the younger man stopped short. “You better slip along to the galley, Bill, an’ see about that grub.”

The Cockney swore, but rose from his seat. Dan was not to be disobeyed in the fo’c’sle. But at that moment the hatch above was darkened.

“’Ere’s the Dago,” cried Bill. “Where you bin, you bloomin’ fool?”

A bare foot came over the combing, feeling vaguely for the steps of the ladder. Dan sat up and laid by his pipe; two seamen went to assist in the safe delivery of their dinner.

“Carn’t yer never learn to bring the grub down the ladder backwards?” Bill was demanding of the new-comer. “Want to capsize it all again, like yer done before?”

“Ah, no!”

The Dago stood in the light of the hatch and answered the Cockney with a shrug and a timid, conciliatory smile. He was a little swarthy man, lean and anxious, with quick, apprehensive eyes which flitted now nervously from one to the other of the big sailors whose comrade and servant he was. There was upon him none of that character of the sea which shaped their every gesture and attitude. As the Cockney snarled at him he moved his hands in deprecating gesticulation; a touch of the florid appeared in him, of that easy vivacity which is native to races ripened in the sun.

“Keepin’ men waitin’ like this,” mouthed Bill. “Bloomin’ flat-footed, greasy ‘anded.”

Dan’s deliberate voice struck in strongly. “Ain’t you goin’ to have no dinner, Dago?” he demanded. “Come on an’ sit down to it, man!”

The Dago made one final shrug at Bill.

“De mate,” he said, smiling with raised eyebrows, as though in pitying reference to that officer’s infirmities of temper, “’e call me. So I cannot go to de galley for fetch de dinner more quick. Please escuse.”

Bill snarled. “Come on with ye,” called Dan again.

“Ah, yais!” And now his smile and his start to obey apologized to Dan for not having come at the first summons.

Dan pushed the “kid” of food towards him. “Dig in,” he bade him.

“You’ve had better grub than this in yer time, but it’s all there is.

So go at it.”

“Better dan dis!” The Dago paused to answer in the act of helping himself. “Ah, mooch, mooch better, yais. I tell you.” He began to gesticulate as he talked, trying to make these callous, careless men see with him the images that his words called up.

“Joost before de hot of de day I sit-a down in a balcao, where it is shade, yais, an’ look at-a de water an’ de trees, an’ hear de bells, all slow an’ gentle, in de church. An’ when it is time dey bring me de leetle fish like-a de gold, all fresh, an’ de leetle bread-cakes, yais, an’ de wine.”

“That’s the style,” approved a seaman. Though they did not cease to eat, they were all listening.

Tales of food and drink are always sure of a hearing in the fo’c’sle.

“On a table of de black wood, shining, an’ a leetle cloth like snow,” the Dago went on; “an’ de black woman dat brings it smiles wiz big white teeth.”

He paused, seeing it all the tropic languor and sweetness of the life he had conjured up, so remote, so utterly different from the rough-hewn realities that surrounded him.

“Shove that beef-kid down this way, will yer?” called Bill.

“You wait,” answered Dan. He jogged the Dago with his elbow. “Now, lad,” he said, “that’s talk enough. Get yer grub.”

The Dago, recalled from his visions, smiled and sighed and leaned forward to take his food. From his seat by the ladder, Bill the Cockney watched with mean, angry eyes to measure the size of his helping.

It was at Sourabaya, in Java, that he had been shipped to fill, as far as he could, the place of a man lost overboard. The port had been bare of seamen; the choice was between the Dago and nobody; and so one evening he had come alongside in a sampan and joined the crew of the Anna Maria. He brought with him as his kit a bundle of broken clothes and a flat paper parcel containing a single suit of clean white duck, which he cherished under the straw mattress of his bunk and never wore. He made no pretence of being a seaman. He could neither steer nor go aloft, and there fell to him, naturally, all the work of the ship that was ignominious or unpleasant or merely menial. It was the Dago, with his shrug and his feeble, complaisant smile, who scraped the boards of the pigsty and hoisted coal for the cook, and swept out the fo’c’sle while the other men lay and smoked.

“What made ye ship, anyway?” men would ask him angrily, when some instance of his incompetence had added to the work of the others. To this, if they would hear him, he had always an answer. He was a Portuguese, it seemed, of some little town on the coast of East Africa, where a land-locked bay drowsed below the windows of the houses under the day-long sun. When he spoke of it, if no one cut him short, his voice would sink to a hushed tone and he would seem to be describing a scene he saw. His jerking, graphic hands would fall still as he talked of the little streets where no one made a noise, and the sailors stared curiously at his face with the glamour of dreams on it.

From a life tuned to that murmur of basking waters a mishap had dragged him forth. It took the shape of a cruise in a fishing boat, in which he and three companions “t’ree senhores, t’ree gentilmen” had run into weather and been blown out to sea, there to be rescued, after four days of hunger and terror, by a steamship which had carried them to Aden and put them ashore there penniless. It was here that his tale grew vague. For something like three years he had wandered, working on ships and ashore, always hoping that sooner or later a chance would serve him to return to his home. Twice already he had got to Mozambique, but that was still nearly a thousand miles from his goal, and on each occasion his ship had carried him inexorably back. The Anna Maria was bound for Mozambique, and he had offered himself, with new hopes for his third attempt.

“D’ye reckon you’ll do it this passage?” the seamen used to ask him over their pipes.

He would shrug and spread his hands. “Ah, who can tell? But some time, yais.”

“An’ what did ye say the name o’ that place o’ yours was?”

He would tell them, speaking, its syllables with soft pleasure in their mere sound.

“Never heard of it,” they always said. “Ships don’t go there, Dago.”

“Ah, but yais.” The Dago had known ships call. “Not often, but sometimes. There is leetle trade, an’ ships come. On de tide, floating up to anchor, so close you hear de men talkin’ on de fo’c’sle head, and dey hear de people ashore girl singin’, perhaps and smell de trees.”

“Do they, though?”

“Yais. Dat night I go out to fish in de boat ah, dat night! a girl was singin’, and her voice it float on de bay all round me. An’ I stand in de boat an’ take off my hat” he rose to show them the gesture “and sing back to her, an’ she is quiet to listen in de darkness.”

When dinner was over it fell to the Dago to take the “kids” back to the galley and sweep down the deck. So he had barely time to smoke the cigarette he made of shredded ship’s tobacco rolled in a strip of newspaper before he had to go on deck again to holystone the spilled tar from the planks. Dan gave him advice about using a hard stone and plenty of sand, to which he listened, smiling, and then he went up the ladder again, with his rags shivering upon him, to the toil of the afternoon.

The seamen were already in their bunks, each smoking ruminatively the pipe that prefaces slumber.

“Queer yarn that feller tells,” remarked one of them idly. “How much of it d’you reckon’s true, Dan?”

In the for’ard lower bunk Dan opened drowsy eyes. He was lying on his back with his hands under his head, and the sleeves of his shirt rolled back left bare his mighty forearms with their faded tattooings. His big, beardless face was red, like rusty iron, with over thirty years of seafaring; it was simple and strong, a transparent mask of the man’s upright and steadfast spirit.

“Eh?” he said, and the other repeated his question. Dan sucked at his pipe and breathed the smoke forth in a thin blue mist.

“It might be true enough,” he answered at length, in his deliberate bass. “Things like that does happen; you c’n read ‘em in newspapers. Anyhow, true or not, the Dago believes it all.”

“Meanin’ he’s mad?” inquired the other. “Blowed if I didn’t think it once or twice myself.”

“He’s mad right enough,” agreed another seaman comfortably, while from Bill’s bunk came the usual snarl of “bloomin’ fool.”

Dan turned over on his side and put his pipe away.

“He don’t do any harm, anyhow,” he said, pulling up his blanket.

“There’s worse than him.”

“Plenty, poor devil,” agreed the first speaker, as he too prepared for the afternoon’s sleep.

On his knees upon the deck aft, shoving his holystone to and fro laboriously and unhandily along the planks where the accident with the tar-pot had left its stain, the Dago still broke into little meaningless smiles. For him, at any rate, the narrow scope between the stem and stern of the Anna Maria was not the world. He had but to lift up the eyes of his mind to behold, beyond it and dwarfing it to triviality, the glamours of a life in which it had no part. Those who saw him at his dreary penance had their excuse for thinking him mad, for there were moments when his face glowed like a lover’s, his lips moved in soundless speech, and he had the aspect of a man illuminated by some sudden and tender joy.

“Now, then, you Dago there,” the officer of the watch shouted at him.

“Keep that stone movin’, an’ none of yer shenanikin’!”

“Yais, sir,” answered the Dago, and bowed himself obediently.

It needed the ingenuity of Bill to trouble his tranquility of mind. The old Anna Maria was far on her passage, and already there were birds about her, the far-flying scouts of the land, and the color of the water had changed to a softer and more radiant blue. It was as though sad Africa made herself comely to invite them to her shores. Bill had a piece of gear to serve with spun-yarn, and was at work abreast of the foremast, with the Dago to help him. The rope on which they worked was stretched between the rail and the mast. Bill had the serving-mallet, and as he worked it round the rope the Dago passed the ball of spun-yarn in time with him. The mate was aft, superintending some work upon the mizzen, and Bill took his job easily. The Dago, with his little smile to which his lips shaped themselves unconsciously, passed the ball in silence. The Cockney eyed him unpleasantly.

“Say, Dago,” he said presently, “wot was the name o’ that there place you said you come from?”

“Eh?” The Dago roused from his smiling reverie. “De name? Ah, yais.” He pronounced the name slowly, making its syllables render their music.

“Yus,” said Bill, “I thought that was it.”

He went on working, steadily, nonchalantly. The Dago stared at him, perplexed.

“Why you want to know dat name?” he asked at length.

“Well,” said Bill, “you bin talkin’ abaht it a lot, and so, d’yer see, I reckoned I’d find out. An’ yesterday I ‘ad to go into the cabin to get at the lazareet ‘atch, an’ the chart was spread out on the table.”

“De chart?” The Dago was slow to understand. “Ah, yais. Mapa chart.

An’ you look at-a ‘im, yais?”

“Yus,” answered Bill, who, like most men before the mast, had never seen a chart in his life. “I looked at ev’ry name on it, ev’ry bloomin’ one. A chart o’ Africa it was, givin’ the whole lot of ‘em. But your place.”

“Yais?” cried the Dago. “You see ‘im? An’ de leetle bay under de hills? You find it?”

“No,” said Bill, “I didn’t find it. It wasn’t there.”

“Wasn’t there?” The Dago’s smile was gone now; his forehead was puckered like a child’s in bewilderment, and a darker doubt at the back of his thoughts loomed up in his troubled eyes.

“No,” said the Cockney, watching him zestfully. “You got it wrong, Dago, an’ there ain’t no such place. You dreamt it. Savvy? All wot you bin tell in’ us about the town an’ the bay an’ the way you used to take it easy there all that’s just a bloomin’ lie. See?”

The Dago’s face was white and his lips trembled. He tried to smile.

“Not there,” he repeated. “It is de joke, not? You fool me, Bill, yais?”

Bill shook his head. “I wouldn’t fool yer abaht a thing like that,” he declared sturdily. “There ain’t no such place, Dago. It’s just one o’ yer fancies, yer know.”

In those three years of wandering there had been dark hours turbulent with pain, hours when his vision, his hope, his memory had not availed to uplift him, and he had known the terror of a doubt lest the whole of it should, after all, be but a creation of his yearnings, a mirage of his desires. Everywhere men had believed him mad. He had accepted that as he accepted toil, hunger and exile, as things to be redeemed by their end. But if it should be true! If this grossness and harshness should, after all, be his real life! Bill saw the agony that broke loose within his victim, and bent his head above his work to hide a smile.

“Ah!” The quiet exclamation was all that issued from the Dago’s lips; the surge of emotion within him sought no vent in words. But Bill was satisfied; he had the instincts of a connoisseur in torment, and the Dago’s face was now a mask that looked as if it had never smiled.

It was Dan that spoiled and undid the afternoon’s work. During the second dog-watch, when the Dago kept the look out, he carried his pipe to the forecastle head and joined him there. Right ahead of the ship the evening sky was still stained with the afterglow of the sunset; the jib-boom swung gently athwart a heaven in whose darkening arch there was still a ghost of color. Between the anchors, where they lay lashed on their chocks, the Dago stood and gazed west to where, beyond the horizon, the shores of Africa had turned barren and meaningless.

“Well, lad,” rumbled Dan, “gettin’ near it, eh? Gettin’ on towards the little town by the bay, ain’t we?”

The Dago swung round towards him. “Dere is no town,” he said calmly.

“No town, no bay, no anyt’ing. I was mad, but now I know.”

He spoke evenly enough, and in the lessening light his face was indistinct. But old Dan, for all his thirty and odd years of hard living, had an ear tuned delicately to the trouble of his voice.

“What’s all’ this?” he demanded shortly. “Who’s been tellin’ you there ain’t no town or anything? Out with it! Who was it?”

“It don’t matter,” said the Dago. “It was Bill.” And briefly, in the same even tones, like those of a man who talks in his sleep, he told the tale of Bill’s afternoon’s sport.

“Ah, so it was Bill!” said Dan slowly, when the recital was at an end. “Bill, was it? Ye-es. Well, o’ course you know that Bill’s the biggest liar ever shipped out o’ London, where liars is as common as weevils in bread. So you don’t want to take no notice of anything Bill says.”

The Dago shook his head. “It is not that,” he said. “It is not de first time I ‘ave been called mad; and sometimes I have think it myself.”

“Oh, go on with ye,” urged Dan. “You ain’t mad.”

“T’ree years,” went on the Dago in his mournful, subdued voice. “T’ree years I go about an’ work, always poor, dirty work, an’ got no name, only ‘Dago.’ I t’ink all de time ‘bout my leetle beautiful town; but sometimes I t’ink, too, when I am tired an’ people is hard to me: ‘It is a dream. De world has no place so good as dat.’ What you t’ink, Dan?”

“Oh, I dunno,” grunted Dan awkwardly. “Anyhow, there ain’t no harm in it. It don’t follow a man’s mad because he’s got fancies.”

“Fancies!” repeated the Dago. “Fancies!” He seemed to laugh a little to himself, laughter with no mirth in it.

Night was sinking on the great solitude of waters. Above them the sails of the foremast stood pale and lofty, and there was the rhythmic jar of a block against a backstay. The Anna Maria lifted her weather bow easily to the even sea, and the two men on the fo’c’sle head swung on their feet unconsciously to the movement of the barque.

“Eef it was only a fancy,” said the Dago suddenly, “eef it was only a town in my mind, I don’ want it no more.” He made a motion with his hand as though he cast something from him. “I t’ink all dis time it is true, dat some day I find it again. It help me; it keep me glad; it save me from misery. But now it is all finish.”

“But don’t you know,” cried Dan, “don’t you know for sure whether it’s true or not?”

The Dago shook his head. “I am no more sure,” he said. “For t’ree years I have had bad times, hard times. So now I am not sure. Dat is why I t’ink I am a little mad, like Bill said.”

“Never mind Bill,” said Dan. “I’ll settle with Bill.”

He put his heavy hand on the other’s arm.

“Lad,” he said, “I’m sorry for your trouble. I ain’t settin’ up to know much about fellers’ minds, but it seems to me as if you was better off without them fancies, if they ain’t true. An’ that town o’ yours! It sounded fine, as good a place as ever I heard of; but it was mighty like them ports worn-out sailormen is always figurin’ to themselves, where they’ll go ashore and take it easy for the rest o’ their lives. It was too good, mate, too good to be true.”

There was a pause. “Yes,” said the Dago at last. “It was too good,

Dan.”

Dan gave his arm a grip, and left him to his look out over a sea whose shores were now as desolate as itself, a man henceforth to be counted sane, since he knew life as bare of beauty, sordid and difficult.

Dan put his pipe in his pocket and walked aft to the main hatch, where the men were gathered for the leisure of the dog-watch. He went at his usual deliberate gait, a notable figure of seamanlike respectability and efficiency. Upon his big, shaven face a rather stolid tranquility reigned. Bill, leaning against a corner of the galley, looked up at him carelessly.

“’Ullo, Dan,” he greeted him.

“Hullo, Bill,” responded Dan. “I bin talkin’ to the Dago.”

“Oh, ‘ave yer?” said Bill.

“Yes,” said Dan, in the same conversational tone. “I have. An’ now

I’m goin’ to have a word with you. Stand clear of that deckhouse!”

“Eh?” cried Bill. “Say, Dan—”

That was all. Dan’s fist, the right one, of the hue and hardness of teak, with Dan’s arm behind it, arrived just under his eye, and the rest of the conversation was yelps. No one attempted to interrupt; even the captain and mate, who watched from the poop, made no motion to interfere; Dan’s reputation for uprightness stood him in good stead.

“There, now,” he said, when it was over, and he allowed the gasping, bleeding Cockney to fall back on the hatch. “See what comes of not takin’ hints?”

They made Mozambique upon the morning of a day when the sun poured from the heavens and the light wind came warm off the land. The old Anna Maria, furling sail by sail, floated up to her anchorage and let go her anchors just as a shore-boat, manned by big nearly naked negroes, with a white man sitting in the stern, raced up alongside. In less than an hour the hands were lifting the anchors again and getting ready to go to sea once more. The cook, who had served the captain and his visitor with breakfast, was able to explain the mystery. He stood at his galley door, with his cloth cap cocked sportively over one eye, and gave the facts to the inquisitive sailors.

“That feller in the boat was th’ agent,” he said. “A Porchuguee, he was. Wanted wine f’r ‘is breakfus’. An’ the orders is, we’re to go down the coast to a place called le’me see, now. What was it called? Some Dago name that I can’t call to mind.”

Dan was among his hearers, and by some freak of memory the name of the town of which the Dago had been used to speak, the town which was now a dream to be forgotten, came to his lips. He spoke it aloud.

“It wasn’t that, I s’pose?” he suggested.

“You’ve got it,” cried the cook. “That was it, Dan; the very place. Fancy you knowin’ it. Well, we got to go down there and get in across a sort of bar what’s there an’ discharge into lighters. Seems it’s a bit out o’ the way o’ shippin’. The skipper said that the charterers seemed to think the old boat ran on wheels.”

“Queer!” said Dan. To himself he said: “He must ha’ heard the name somewhere and hitched his dream to it.”

The name, as it chanced, was one of many syllables, and the sailors managed them badly. Men who speak of the islands of Diego Ramirez as the “Daggarammarines” are not likely to deal faithfully with a narrie that rings delicately like guitar strings, and Dan observed that their mention of the barque’s destination had no effect upon the Dago. For him all ports had become indifferent; one was not nearer than another to any place of his desire. He spoke no more of his town; when the men, trying to draw him, spoke about food, or women, or other roads to luxury, he answered without smiling.

“I t’ink no more ‘bout dat,” he said. “T’ree year work an’ have bad times. Before, I don’ remember o more.”

“He was better when he was crazy,” agreed the seamen. It was as though the gaiety, the spring of gladness, within the little man had been dried up; there was left only the incompetent and despised Dago. He faced the routine of his toil now with no smile of preoccupation for a sweeter vision; he shuffled about decks, futile as ever, with the dreariness of a man in prison.

Only to Dan he spoke more freely. It was while the watch was washing down decks in the morning. The two were side by side, plying their brooms along the wet planks, while about them the dawn broadened towards the tropic day.

“I am no more mad,” said the Dago. “Now I know I am not mad. Dat name of de place where we go de men don’ know how to speak it, but it is de name of my town, de town I t’ink about once so much. Yais I know! At last, after all dis time, I come dere, but I am not glad. I am never glad no more ‘bout not’ing.”

Dan worked on. He could think of no answer to make.

“Only ‘bout one t’ing I am glad,” went on the Dago. “’Bout a friend I make on dis ship; ‘bout you, Dan.”

“Oh, hell!” grunted Dan awkwardly.

“But ‘bout de town, I am no more glad. I know now it is more better to be sad an’ poor an’ weak dan to be mad an’ glad about fancies. Yais I know now!”

“You’ll be all right,” said Dan. “Cheer up, lad. There’s fellers worse off than you!” An inspiration lit up his honest and downright brain for a moment. “Why,” he said, “it’s better to be you than be a feller like Bill that never had a fancy in his life. You’ve lost a lot, maybe; but you can’t lose a thing you never had.”

The Dago half-smiled. “Yais,” he said. “You are mos’ wise, Dan. But,

Dan! Dan!”

“Yes. What?”

“If it had been true, Dan dat beautiful town an’ all my dream! If it had been true!”

“Shove along wi’ that broom,” advised Dan. “The mate’s lookin’.”

They came abreast of their port about midday, and Dan, at the wheel, heard the captain swear as they stood in through a maze of broken water, where coral reefs sprouted like weeds in a neglected garden, towards the hills that stood low above the horizon. He had been furnished, it seemed, with a chart concerning whose trustworthiness he entertained the bitterest doubts. There was some discussion with the mate about anchoring and sending in a boat to bring off a pilot, but presently they picked up a line of poles sticking up above the water like a ruined fence, and these seemed to comfort the captain. Bits of trees swam alongside; a flight of small birds, with flashes of green and red in their plumage, swung about them; the water, as they went, changed color. Little by little the hills lifted from the level of the water and took on color and variety, till from the deck one could make out the swell of their contours and distinguish the hues of the wild vegetation that clothed them. The yellow of a beach and a snowy gleam of surf showed at their feet, and then, dead ahead and still far away, they opened, and in the gap there was visible the still shining blue of water that ran inland and lay quiet under their shelter.

“Stand by your to’gallant halyards!” came the order. “Lower away there!”

It was evening already when the old Anna Maria, floating slowly under a couple of jibs and a foretopsail, rounded the point and opened the town. The bay, with its fringe of palms, lay clear before her; beyond its farthest edge, the sun had just set, leaving his glories to burn out behind him, and astern of them in the east the swift tropic night was racing up the sky. The little town a church-tower and a cluster of painted, flat-roofed houses, lay behind the point at the water’s edge. There was a music of bells in the still air; all the scene breathed that joyous languor, that easy beauty which only the sun can ripen, which the windy north never knows. With the night at her heels, the old Anna Maria moved almost imperceptibly towards the town.

“Stand by to anchor!” came the order from aft, and the mate, calling three men with him, went up the ladder to the fo’c’sle head.

Dan was one of the three. He was at the rail, looking at the little town as it unfolded itself, house after house, with the narrow streets between, when he first noticed the white figure at his side. He turned in surprise; it was the Dago, in the cherished suit of duck which he had guarded for so long under his mattress. Heretofore, Dan had known him only in his rags of working-clothes, a mildly pathetic and ridiculous figure; now he was seemly, unfamiliar, a little surprising.

“What’s all this?” demanded Dan.

The Dago was looking with all his eyes at the town, already growing dim.

“Dis?” he repeated. “Dese clo’se, I keep dem for my town, Dan. To come back wis yais! For not be like a mendigo a beggar. Now, no need to keep dem no more; and dis place oh, Dan, it is so like, so like! I dream it all yais de church, de praca all of it!”

“Steady!” growled Dan. “Don’t get dreamin’ it again.”

“No,” said the Dago; “I never dream no more. Never no more!”

He did not take his eyes from it; he stood at the rail gazing, intent, absorbed. He did not hear the mate’s brief order that summoned him and the others across the deck.

“When I go out on de fishin’ boat,” he said aloud, thinking Dan was still at his side, “a girl was singin’ an’—”

“Here, you!” cried the mate. “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you?”

He stopped in amazement, for the Dago turned and spat a brief word at him, making a gesture with his hand as though to command silence.

In the moment that followed they all heard it a voice that sang, a strong and sweet contralto that strewed its tones forth like a scent, to add itself to the other scents of earth and leaves that traveled across the waters and reached them on their deck. They heard it lift itself as on wings to a high exaltation of melody and fail thence, hushing and drooping deliciously, down diminishing slopes of song.

“What the-” began the mate, and moved to cross the deck.

His surprises were not yet at an end, for Dan Dan, the ideal seaman, the precise in his duty, the dependable, the prosaically perfect Dan caught him by the arm with a grip in which there was no deference for the authority of a chief officer.

“Leave him be, sir,” urged Dan. “I, I know what’s the matter with him. Leave him be!”

The voice ashore soared again, sure and buoyant; the mate dragged his arm free from Dan’s hold and turned to swear; on the main deck the horse-laugh of Bill answered the singer. The Dago heard nothing. Bending forward over the rail, he stretched both arms forth, and in a voice that none recognized, broken and passionate, he took up the song. It was but for a minute, while the mate recovered his outraged senses, but it was enough. The voice ashore had ceased.

“What the blank blank!” roared the mate, as he dragged the Dago across the deck. “What d’ye mean by it, eh? Get hold o’ that rope, or I’ll—.”

“Yais, sir.”

A moment later he turned to Dan, and in the already deepening gloom his smile gleamed white in his face.

“Ah, my frien’!” he said. “Dere was no dream. T’ree years, all bad, all hard, all sad dat was de dream. Now I wake up. Only one t’ing true in all de t’ree years de friend I make yais.”

“Hark!” said Dan. “Hear it? There’s boats comin’ off to us.”

“Yais!” The smile gleamed again. “For me. It is no dream. Dey hear my voice when I sing. By’m by you hear dem callin’, ‘Felipe!’ Dat’s my name.”

“Listen, then,” said Dan in a whisper.

The water trickled alongside; they were coming up to their berth. The bells from the church ashore were still. Across the bay there came the clack of oars in rowlocks, pulled briskly, and voices.

“Felipe!” they called. “Felipe!”

The Dago’s hand found Dan’s.