E-text prepared by Charles Klingman
Fifteen Stories
by
Perceval Gibbon
London Chapman & Dodd, Ltd. 25 Denmark Street, W.C. 2
First Published (Methuen & Co.) 6s. 1913
First Published in the Abbey Library 1922
The party from the big German mail-boat had nearly completed theirinspection of Mozambique, they had walked up and down the mainstreet, admired the palms, lunched at the costly table of Lazarus,and purchased "curios"—Indian silks, Javanese; knives, Birminghammetal-work, and what not—as mementoes of their explorations. Inparticular, Miss Paterson had invested in a heavy bronze image—apparently Japanese—concerning which she entertained the thrillingdelusion that it was an object of local worship. It was a grotesquething, massive and bulky, weighing not much less than ten or twelvepounds. Hence it was confided to the careful porterage of Dawson, anassiduous and favored courtier of Miss Paterson; and he, havinglunched, was fated to leave it behind at Lazarus' Hotel.
Miss Paterson shook her fluffy curls at him. They were drawingtowards dinner, and the afternoon was wearing stale.
"I did so want that idol," she said plaintively. She had the childishquality of voice, the insipidity of intonation, which is bestappreciated in steamboat saloons. "Oh, Mr. Dawson, don't you thinkyou could get it back for me?"
"I'm frightfully sorry," said the contrite Dawson. "I'll go back atonce. You don't know when the ship goes, do you?"
Another of Miss Paterson's cavaliers assured him that he had somehours yet. "The steward told me so," he added authoritatively.
"Then I'll go at once," said Dawson, hating him.
"Mind, don't lose the boat," Miss Paterson called after him.
He went swiftly back up the wide main street in which they had spentthe day. Lamps were beginning to shine everywhere, and the dull peaceof the place was broken by a new life. Those that dwell in darknesswere going abroad now, and the small saloons were filling. Dawsonnoted casually that evening was evidently the lively time ofMozambique. He passed men of a type he had missed during the day, menof all nationalities, by their faces, and every shade of color. Theywere lounging on the sidewalk in knots of two or three, sitting atthe little tables outside the saloons, or lurking at the entrances ofnarrow alleys that ran aside from the main street every few paces.All were clad in thin white suits, and some wore knives in fullsight, while there was that about them that would lead even the mostinnocent and conventional second-class passenger to guess at a weaponconcealed somewhere. Some of them looked keenly at Dawson as hepassed along; and although he met their eyes impassively, he—evenhe—was conscious of an implied estimate in their glance, as thoughthey classified him with a look. Once he stepped aside to let a womanpass. She was large, flamboyantly southern and calm. She loungedalong, a cloak over her left arm,