Конец рабства

           VanWyk”—andbythesuffusionofbloodMassy’svastbiliousfaceacquiredanunnaturalorangetint,outofwhichthedisconcertedcoal-blackeyesshoneinanextraordinarymanner.

           “Nonsense.Iamtiredofthis.IwonderyouhavetheimpudencetocomealongsidemyjettyasifIhaditmadeforyourconveniencealone.”

           Massytriedtoprotestearnestly.Mr.VanWykwasveryangry.HehadagoodmindtoaskthatGermanfirm—thosepeopleinMalacca—whatwastheirname?—boatswithgreenfunnels.Theywouldbeonlytoogladoftheopeningtoputoneoftheirsmallsteamersontherun.Yes;Schnitzler,JacobSchnitzler,wouldinamoment.Yes.Hehaddecidedtowritewithoutdelay.

           InhisagitationMassycaughtuphisfallingpipe.

           “Youdon’tmeanit,sir!”heshrieked.

           “Youshouldn’tmismanageyourbusinessinthisridiculousmanner.”

           Mr.VanWykturnedonhisheel.Theotherthreewhitesonthebridgehadnotstirredduringthescene.Massywalkedhastilyfromsidetoside,puffedouthischeeks,suffocated.

           “StuckupDutchman!”

           Andhemoanedoutfeverishlyalongtaleofgriefs.Theeffortshehadmadeforalltheseyearstopleasethatman.Thiswasthereturnyougotforit,eh?Pretty.WritetoSchnitzler—letinthegreen-funnelboats—getanoldHamburgJewtoruinhim.No,reallyhecouldlaugh....Helaughedsobbingly....Ha!ha!ha!Andmakehimcarrytheletterinhisownshippresumably.

           Hestumbledacrossagratingandswore.HewouldnothesitatetoflingtheDutchman’scorrespondenceoverboard—thewholeconfoundedbundle.