Ugi had dropped astern, and the _Arla_ was sliding along through a
summer sea toward the wooded ranges of Malaita. The helmsman who so
attracted Bertie's eyes sported a tenpenny nail, stuck skewerwise
through his nose. About his neck was string of pants buttons. Thrust
through holes in his ears were a can-opener, the broken handle of a
tooth-brush, a clay pipe, the brass wheel of an alarm clock, and
several Winchester rifle cartridges. On his chest, suspended from
around his neck hung the half of a china plate. Some forty similarly
apparelled blacks lay about the deck, fifteen of which were boat's
crew, the remainder being fresh labor recruits.
"Of course it was an accident," spoke up the _Arla's_ mate, Jacobs, a
slender, dark-eyed man who looked more a professor than a sailor.
"Johnny Bedlip nearly had the same kind of accident. He was bringing
back several from a flogging, when they capsized him. But he knew how
to swim as well as they, and two of them were drowned. He used a
boat-stretcher and a revolver. Of course it was an accident."
"Quite common, them accidents," remarked the skipper. "You see that
man at the wheel, Mr. Arkwright? He's a man-eater.
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