(By 'Polygon.')
The waterfall fell sparkling into the
bay. It was spring. The sealers had come
out again for the summer's plunder.
'Yes, that's the place,' said old Bob
Gemble. 'You can see him still — poor
old Steve. See him by the rock, there,
all grinning. But he's rotten and white
now and there ain't much left on his bones.
Thank God, though, no bird or nibbling
shark got at him. He must have stood
right 'ere and 'eaved him in and the
water took and dropped him down by
the stone and spread its white sheet over
him. We found him in the morning sitting
there, just as he is now, with the fall
tumbling down all on top of him and his
throat cut from ear to ear.'
The two men were standing on the
cliff, looking over a rocky ledge into the
midmost of the welter of foam below,
where something white and gruesome was
wedged.
'It's a queer perch he has down there,'
said Gemble.
''He'll break up soon," said the young
man, and be carried down.'
'No- not yet. He's lasted three years
out and I know he won't find an easy
bed not yet. No, not until --. But we
had better shift, boy. Come on.
The young man stooped and hoisted a
dead kangaroo to his shoulder. Its limp
forepaws and shattered head lolled down
over his back and blood dripped unheeded
from its nose on to his ragged trousers
at every step, as he followed old Gemble
back to the camp in Doubtful Island Bay.
The fall sounded fainter and fainter as
they went crashing along.
'I'm glad , to be away from that,' said
the young man. 'It's a creepy -sight.'
"It sure looks unnatural to see him
hanging there,' said the old man, trudging
ahead. 'He's hung three years with the
water over him, but his ghost won't let
his white bones drop.' The old man spoke
hoarsely and his words trailed off to a
mumbling and grunting. The young man.
looking at the set of the shoulders that
were forcing a way through the thicket
ahead of him, thought to himself, 'One
day Bob will tip Black Anderson over
board.' But as they trudged on and the
sound of the fall could be heard no more
and a chilly wind blew up from the south,
making the old man shudder a little, and
his shoulders to droop, the young man,
stumbling under, his burden, grunted to
himself, 'No, not him. He hasn't got
the guts.' It was the very thought that
Bob Gemble was thinking of himself. Yet
be was under a vow.
Gambling Around the Fire.
Lolling beneath a rough bough shelter
near the beach that night, their feet
towards the fire, built at the entrance,
the sealers played an old, long since forgot
ten game with, greasy cards and chips of
wood. Already, having yet taken nothing,
they were gambling away their rightful
share of the season's catch. Black Ander
son, the headsman and owner, was with
them— a gigantic negro in white canvas
trousers, faded blue shirt and a red cloth
knotted around his neck. He was win
ning a little. It was just as well, thought
everyone, for Anderson, when losing,
might knock a man into the fire, or kick
the cards from his hands or, with one
swing of his mighty arm, wrench the whole
frail roof of bushes down on the head
of his crew and leave them struggling in
the ruins while he went laughing to the
shelter of his tent. To-night, however,
he was winning, and he chuckled and
boasted of what a season it was going to
be and how he could knock over more
seals than any man on the coast and what
a fine crew he had, while beside him,
like a dog, crouched the dumb black wo
man Dinah.
The fire was the only light on the circle
of faces. It was kind to those hard fea
tures. It flashed on the grins at the black
man's jokes and smoothed out the scowls
with its dancing shadows. The young man,
being on his first, voyage, thought it all
very jolly and comradely and doubted that
ever Anderson could have poor Stephen's
throat and pitched him into the fall as
Gemble said he did. As for Gemble, he
was thinking ahead, for this was only the
first night of the season.
The season, so far as sealing mattered
was a good one. The richer, the take the
higher were the stakes to be won at the
nightly gambling. With the summer nearly
out, Anderson seldom made jokes around
the fire. He cursed and bullied and cheated
the mongrel lot that cowered under his
rule. The young man saw Mooney cheated
beaten and thrust out of the circle and
having heard him muttering at night
thought to himself that one day Mooney
would murder Anderson partly for re
venge but mostly for the belt he carried
at his waist. The young man, having seen
Andre cuffed and humiliated and having
intercepted low glances from his evil black
eyes had thought to himself that one day
Andre's smouldering rage would overcome
his fear and he would knife Anderson, as,
it was said, he had knifed young Hook
for jealousy two years before. The young
man, knowing the lust of Peter's mind,
wondered whether he ever would carry
out his threats, to disposses the leader.
When Bob Gemble had one of his mad
turns and crooned about his old boat
mate Steve and the white bones in the
waterfall, the young man wondered
whether, revenge of a comrade's death
might not be a more powerful force than
lust or greed or injured pride. Finally, the
season then being nearly over, the young
man, frenzied with terror and sick with
loathing, wondered whether one day he
would kill Anderson himself.
There was not a man in the crew that
had not said to another that he would
kill Anderson but could they ever mutiny?
Gemble's revenge. Andre's grievance
Peter's lust and Mooney's greed had no
place for the help of others and went un
satisfied rather than that others should
share its satisfaction.
Meanwhile Anderson stormed and bul
lied, sometimes brandishing the brace of
pistols he always carried, sometimes wav-
ing a cutlass, more often subduing the
curs with a blow of the first or a kick;
and when, in the day time, they saw him
poised in the bow, saw hhn leaping to
the rocks and gagped at his skill and dar-
ing they, could not but admire as they
feared this splendid giant. Then hate and
courage failed.
An Old Haunt.
Then one evenuig they came to Man
duran, an old haunt. The old huts were
still there. The poles for Anderson's tent
were still standing. The soak they had dug
the season before was awaiting. The weary
sealers sighed with a sense of peace, like
men sinking into an easy chair by an old
and friendly hearth. There was one new
face among them. Two days before, from
Joe Newman's boat, by cajolery, force and
bargaining with sealskins belonging to his
men Anderson had acquired another
woman. Dumb Dinah, burdened with his
tent and baggage, trailed behind him and
the new favourite in meek devotion.
That night, over the cards, there was
another quarrel. Anderson cheated and
when the young man spoke a greasy black
palm was pushed, into his face and the
savage laughed at him.
"Dogs", said the black man, rising, and
spat at them. Gemble, who had been crazy
all day, started to scream something about
Steve. Anderson yanked him up by the
shoulder and flung him crashing through
the wall of the hut. The three others
trembled and crouch lower.
"Pigs." Anderson kicked at the dying
fire, scattering embers among them and
laughing, stamped off to his tent. The
dumb gin crawled after him. The three
were still crouched in silence, the cards
forgotten around them. Old Bob had
ceased groaning. Presently he got up and
went away. The young man had disappear-
ed. The three at the fire were waiting.
They may have slept as they sat, but when
a shot sounded, all were bolt upright and
listening.
Presently old Bob came in. Presently the
young man came in. Moolby, the new
gin, crept to the fire and Peter drew her
to his side. No one asked questions for
no one needed to. The only human sound
heard that night was the moaning of
Dinah, flung prostrate, grieving over the
corpse of the villain who lay in the moon
drenched tent, her course hair matted in
the blood of the man she had murdered
in the torment of her love.
In the morning they dragged her away
and flung the body down the soak, scrap-
ing earth on top of it. Then they moved off, the woman whimpering in the stern.
