Limekiller!

There was deep water, so. A bit back in the bush was a stream, so: it trickled into the Bav — not much of a stream, but betokening a spring. The King Town Municipal Water Service did not after all extend its pipelines dowm this far; neither did the distilled-water man and his garrafones interest the Nationals. So the bishop was in luck in a few several ways. Limekiller got his back into his work and imagined the place as it would look, with standard coconut palms along the shore, just for fancy (as well as for nuts). a bit back, perhaps behind the bungalow, would be dwarf cocounts: more convenient for a man of retired years, who could scarcely be expected to shinny up a tree whenever he wanted some fruit.

Jack had piled quite a bit of cargo well above high water-mark, and was sweating heartily. He thought of how' nicely a cold beer would go down about now, and happily it was that he remembered having let one down upon a string into the deep, deep waters of the Cove: the surface was warmed by the sun, but the depths.

He took hold of the string and, suddenly, he was on his knees, in a shaking spasm of chill which racked his whole body.

“Why, Mr. Limekiller,” the medical officer had said, some w'hile back, when he was asked, “yes, I can prescribe you an antimalarial drug, but I advise against it. You see, malaria has been almost stamped out here, and, even if you should get it, we can fix you up in a few days — whereas, should you get bad reactions or side-effects from the medicine itself, it might take months.

So here he was, miles and miles from any human being, and it had to be here and now that he suddenly came dowm with it.

He was on his knees, head bent, and he was looking down into the greeny depths of the cove, a few feet away. Something was down there, something manlike and wdiite. Something which slow', now, began to rise towards the surface, slowly turning as it did so. It was the body of the man in the mist, the man in the longboat: he had fallen overboard, he had

drowned, and his body had drifted ashore. here.

The drowned face turned his way and looked at him — or appeared to — and the drowned face. But wait, but wait! Do the faces of men who have drowned change expression before one’s very eyes? Do drowned bodies clutch one side with one hand? Do the faces of drowned men suddenly change as though their mouths were open and screaming, down way below the water? And, most horrid of all: do drow’ned men bleed.?

By and by somebody hailed him. He had been half-sitting, halflying against the pile of planks. “Mr. Limekiller! I di recognize you boat, sah. Teenk me come ashore, ahsk hoew' de day — Eh, Mr. Jock. You sick, mon? Sick?”

“Think I just had an attack of malaria,’’Jack mumbled. The chill was gone, the fever hadn’t come. He just felt very, very bad. Who was this, now, with the familiar voice. He peered out of his halfclosed eyes.

“Eh, Jock, me gweyn fetch you some-teeng good!. Bide a bit!” As though there were anywhere for Limekiller to stray off to! In a minute the man was back. Harlow the Hunter, that was who he was. In his hand he had a bottle with a bunch of. “Ah! right, noew, Jock, dis naught but rum with country verba steep een eet. Suppose you tehk some. Ah lee’ swallow. Eh?”

Whatever kind of country herb the twigs were, they had given a bitter taste to the rum: but that was okay. Anything was okay. He w'asn’t alone now:. He took a sip. He took another sip. He put the bottle down, and thanked the man for it.

Harlow looked in his eyes. “Very odd, Jock. You wyes not yellow ah-tahl! Cahn’t be malaria. No sah. Muss be some-teeng else.” Limekiller felt he could let the diagnosis wait. “What are you doing down around here, Harlow? I thought all the Baymen south of King Town w'ere ferrying stuff to Pine Tree Creek… or else holed up in Port Caroline.”

Harlow looked puzzled. “Mon, I no care for keep no ferry schedule. Hahv w: ahn lee’ cave oet in de Welshmahn C’yes, I juss be oet dere husking coconut, mehbe wahn week, mon. Ahnd what you mean, ‘hole up in Port Caroline’? What you mean, mon?”

Jack took another dram of the infusion. “I mean, oh, you know. God. The Jack O’Lantern. The, the Flying Dutchman —” But Harlow at once shook his head, vigorously. Negatively. The Colony of British Hidalgo was small. And its population was small. It was, nevertheless, a place with diversity: the little room of infinite riches, in a way. Even its folklore was not of one piece of fabric.