Heyst did mean that. "My poor father died in London. It has been all
stored there ever since," he explained.
"For all these years?" exclaimed Davidson, thinking how long we all had
known Heyst flitting from tree to tree in a wilderness.
"Even longer," said Heyst, who had understood very well.
This seemed to imply that he had been wandering before he came under our
observation. In what regions? And what early age? Mystery. Perhaps he
was a bird that had never had a nest.
"I left school early," he remarked once to Davidson, on the passage. "It
was in England. A very good school. I was not a shining success there."
The confessions of Heyst. Not one of us--with the probable exception of
Morrison, who was dead--had ever heard so much of his history. It
looks as if the experience of hermit life had the power to loosen one's
tongue, doesn't it?
During that memorable passage, in the Sissie, which took about two days,
he volunteered other hints--for you could not call it information--about
his history. And Davidson was interested. He was interested not because
the hints were exciting but because of that innate curiosity about our
fellows which is a trait of human nature. Davidson's existence, too,
running the Sissie along the Java Sea and back again, was distinctly
monotonous and, in a sense, lonely. He never had any sort of company on
board.
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