At present, our few residents are dispersed over
both spots: deducting, that is to say, such of our number as are always
going to, or coming from, or staying at, the Mine."
("_He_ is among one of those parties," I thought, "and I wish somebody
would knock his head off.")
"Some of our married ladies live here," she said, "during at least half
the year, as lonely as widows, with their children."
"Many children here, ma'am?"
"Seventeen. There are thirteen married ladies, and there are eight like
me."
There were not eight like her--there was not one like her--in the world.
She meant single.
"Which, with about thirty Englishmen of various degrees," said the young
lady, "form the little colony now on the Island. I don't count the
sailors, for they don't belong to us. Nor the soldiers," she gave us a
gracious smile when she spoke of the soldiers, "for the same reason."
"Nor the Sambos, ma'am," said I.
"No."
"Under your favour, and with your leave, ma'am," said I, "are they
trustworthy?"
"Perfectly! We are all very kind to them, and they are very grateful to
us."
"Indeed, ma'am? Now--Christian George King?--"
"Very much attached to us all. Would die for us.
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