He marched into the long grass and vanished--all but
the top of his white cork helmet, which seemed to swim in a green sea.
Then that too disappeared, as if it had sunk into the living depths of
the tropical vegetation, which is more jealous of men's conquests than
the ocean, and which was about to close over the last vestiges of the
liquidated Tropical Belt Coal Company--A. Heyst, manager in the East.
Davidson, a good, simple fellow in his way, was strangely affected. It
is to be noted that he knew very little of Heyst. He was one of those
whom Heyst's finished courtesy of attitude and intonation most strongly
disconcerted. He himself was a fellow of fine feeling, I think, though
of course he had no more polish than the rest of us. We were naturally
a hail-fellow-well-met crowd, with standards of our own--no worse, I
daresay, than other people's; but polish was not one of them. Davidson's
fineness was real enough to alter the course of the steamer he
commanded. Instead of passing to the south of Samburan, he made it his
practice to take the passage along the north shore, within about a mile
of the wharf.
"He can see us if he likes to see us," remarked Davidson. Then he had an
afterthought: "I say! I hope he won't think I am intruding, eh?"
We reassured him on the point of correct behaviour. The sea is open to
all.
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