“It’s a little trader from Arica and Callao . I never asked where she came from in the beginning—out of the land of born fools, I guess. I’m a passenger myself, from Arica . The silly ass who owns her—he’s captain too, named Davies—he’s lost his certificate, or something. You know the kind of man—calls the thing the Ipecacuanha , of all silly, infernal names; though when there’s much of a sea without any wind, she certainly acts according.”
(Then the noise overhead began again, a snarling growl and the voice of a human being together. Then another voice, telling some “heaven-forsaken idiot” to desist.)
“You were nearly dead,” said my interlocutor. “It was a very near thing, indeed. But I’ve put some stuff into you now. Notice your arm’s sore? Injections. You’ve been insensible for nearly thirty hours.”
I thought slowly. (I was distracted now by the yelping of a number of dogs.) “Am I eligible for solid food?” I asked.
“Thanks to me,” he said. “Even now the mutton is boiling.”
“Yes,” I said with assurance; “I could eat some mutton.”
“But,” said he with a momentary hesitation, “you know I’m dying to hear of how you came to be alone in that boat. Damn that howling! ” I thought I detected a certain suspicion in his eyes.
He suddenly left the cabin, and I heard him in violent controversy with someone, who seemed to me to talk gibberish in response to him. The matter sounded as though it ended in blows, but in that I thought my ears were mistaken. Then he shouted at the dogs, and returned to the cabin.
“Well?” said he in the doorway. “You were just beginning to tell me.”