Кінець рабства
XII
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.