X

A Sun of the Sun by Jack London

They’re a precious pair, those two men. I don’t understand it at all.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Snow asked.

“Oh, hang around a while. There are some books ashore there I want to

read. Suppose you send that topmast down in the morning and generally

overhaul. We’ve been through a hurricane, you know. Set up the rigging

while you’re about it. Get things pretty well adrift, and take your time.”

VI

The next day Grief’s suspicions found further food. Ashore early, he

strolled across the little island to the barracks occupied by the divers. They

were just boarding the boats when he arrived, and it struck him that for

Kanakas they behaved more like chain-gang prisoners. The three white

men were there, and Grief noted that each carried a rifle. Hall greeted him

jovially enough, but Gorman and Watson scowled as they grunted curt

good mornings.

A moment afterward one of the Kanakas, as he bent to place his oar,

favoured Grief with a slow, deliberate wink. The man’s face was familiar,

one of the thousands of native sailors and divers he had encountered

drifting about in the island trade.

“Don’t tell them who I am,” Grief said, in Tahitian. “Did you ever sail for

me?”

The man’s head nodded and his mouth opened, but before he could speak

he was suppressed by a savage “Shut up!” from Watson, who was already

in the sternsheets.

“I beg pardon,” Grief said. “I ought to have known better.”

“That’s all right,” Hall interposed. “The trouble is they’re too much talk

and not enough work. Have to be severe with them, or they wouldn’t get

enough shell to pay their grub.”

Grief nodded sympathetically. “I know them. Got a crew of them

myself—the lazy swine. Got to drive them like niggers to get a half- day’s

work out of them.”

“What was you sayin’ to him?” Gorman blurted in bluntly.

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“I was asking how the shell was, and how deep they were diving.”

“Thick,” Hall took over the answering. “We’re working now in about ten

fathom. It’s right out there, not a hundred yards off. Want to come along?”

Half the day Grief spent with the boats, and had lunch in the bungalow. In

the afternoon he loafed, taking a siesta in the big living- room, reading

some, and talking for half an hour with Mrs. Hall. After dinner, he played

billiards with her husband. It chanced that Grief had never before

encountered Swithin Hall, yet the latter’s fame as an expert at billiards was

the talk of the beaches from Levuka to Honolulu. But the man Grief

played with this night proved most indifferent at the game. His wife

showed herself far cleverer with the cue.

When he went on board the Uncle Toby Grief routed Jackie- Jackie out of

bed. He described the location of the barracks, and told the Tongan to

swim softly around and have talk with the Kanakas. In two hours Jackie-

Jackie was back. He shook his head as he stood dripping before Grief.

“Very funny t’ing,” he reported. “One white man stop all the time. He has

big rifle. He lay in water and watch. Maybe twelve o’clock, other white

man come and take rifle. First white man go to bed. Other man stop now

with rifle. No good. Me cannot talk with Kanakas. Me come back.”

“By George!” Grief said to Snow, after the Tongan had gone back to his

bunk. “I smell something more than shell. Those three men are standing

watches over their Kanakas. That man’s no more Swithin Hall than I am.”

Snow whistled from the impact of a new idea.

“I’ve got it!” he cried.

“And I’ll name it,” Grief retorted. “It’s in your mind that the Emily L. was

their schooner?”

“Just that. They’re raising and rotting the shell, while she’s gone for more

divers, or provisions, or both.”

“And I agree with you.” Grief glanced at the cabin clock and evinced signs

of bed-going. “He’s a sailor. The three of them are. But they’re not island

men. They’re new in these waters.”

Again Snow whistled.

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“And the Emily L. is lost with all hands,” he said. “We know that. They’re

marooned here till Swithin Hall comes. Then he’ll catch them with all the

shell.”

“Or they’ll take possession of his schooner.”

“Hope they do!” Snow muttered vindictively. “Somebody ought to rob

him. Wish I was in their boots. I’d balance off that sixty thousand.”

VII

A week passed, during which time the Uncle Toby was ready for sea,

while Grief managed to allay any suspicion of him by the shore crowd.

Even Gorman and Watson accepted him at his self-description.

Throughout the week Grief begged and badgered them for the longitude of

the island.

“You wouldn’t have me leave here lost,” he finally urged. “I can’t get a line

on my chronometer without your longitude.”

Hall laughingly refused.

“You’re too good a navigator, Mr. Anstey, not to fetch New Guinea or

some other high land.”

“And you’re too good a navigator, Mr. Hall,” Grief replied, “not to know

that I can fetch your island any time by running down its latitude. ”

On the last evening, ashore, as usual, to dinner, Grief got his first view of

the pearls they had collected. Mrs. Hall, waxing enthusiastic, had asked

her husband to bring forth the “pretties,” and had spent half an hour

showing them to Grief. His delight in them was genuine, as well as was

his surprise that they had made so rich a haul.

“The lagoon is virgin,” Hall explained. “You saw yourself that most of the

shell is large and old. But it’s funny that we got most of the valuable pearls

in one small patch in the course of a week. It was a little treasure house.

Every oyster seemed filled—seed pearls by the quart, of course, but the

perfect ones, most of that bunch there, came out of the small patch.”

Grief ran his eye over them and knew their value ranged from one hundred

to a thousand dollars each, while the several selected large ones went far

beyond.

“Oh, the pretties! the pretties!” Mrs. Hall cried, bending forward suddenly

and kissing them.

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A few minutes later she arose to say good-night.

“It’s good-bye,” Grief said, as he took her hand. “We sail at daylight.”

“So suddenly!” she cried, while Grief could not help seeing the quick light

of satisfaction in her husband’s eyes.

“Yes,” Grief continued. “All the repairs are finished. I can’t get the

longitude of your island out of your husband, though I’m still in hopes he’ll

relent.”

Hall laughed and shook his head, and, as his wife left the room, proposed

a last farewell nightcap. They sat over it, smoking and talking.

“What do you estimate they’re worth?” Grief asked, indicating the spread

of pearls on the table. “I mean what the pearl-buyers would give you in

open market?”

“Oh, seventy-five or eighty thousand,” Hall said carelessly.

“I’m afraid you’re underestimating. I know pearls a bit. Take that biggest

one. It’s perfect. Not a cent less than five thousand dollars. Some

multimillionaire will pay double that some day, when the dealers have

taken their whack. And never minding the seed pearls, you’ve got quarts of

baroques there. And baroques are coming into fashion. They’re picking up

and doubling on themselves every year.”

Hall gave the trove of pearls a closer and longer scrutiny, estimating the

different parcels and adding the sum aloud.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “They’re worth a hundred thousand right

now.”

“And at what do you figure your working expenses?” Grief went on.

“Your time, and your two men’s, and the divers’?”

“Five thousand would cover it.”

“Then they stand to net you ninety-five thousand?”

“Something like that. But why so curious?”

“Why, I was just trying—” Grief paused and drained his glass. “Just trying

to reach some sort of an equitable arrangement. Suppose I should give you

and your people a passage to Sydney and the five thousand dollars—or,

better, seven thousand five hundred. You’ve worked hard.”

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Without commotion or muscular movement the other man became alert

and tense. His round-faced geniality went out like the flame of a snuffed

candle. No laughter clouded the surface of the eyes, and in their depths

showed the hard, dangerous soul of the man. He spoke in a low, deliberate

voice.

“Now just what in hell do you mean by that?”

Grief casually relighted his cigar.

“I don’t know just how to begin,” he said. “The situation is—er—is

embarrassing—for you. You see, I’m trying to be fair. As I say, you’ve

worked hard. I don’t want to confiscate the pearls. I want to pay you for

your time and trouble, and expense.”

Conviction, instantaneous and absolute, froze on the other’s face.

“And I thought you were in Europe,” he muttered. Hope flickered for a

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