The Moccasins of Silence

A group of New Guinea boys busily engaged in cleaning pearl-shell,
chattering the while, as they wield their knives, and show their
strong, even teeth in frequent laughter. Fine, strapping, copper-
coloured fellows, with great mops of hair dyed yellow. A white man
leans against the door post, dreamily smoking; trying hard to think of
nothing and succeeding tolerably well. Beyond--is as fair a view as
could be seen anywhere in the thousands of miles of the long
Australian coast-line.

It is the glorious winter weather of the southern tropic, and the
deep blue waters of the almost land-locked strait are rippling merrily
under the breath of the steady south-east monsoon. The grey hills of
Prince of Wales Island stand out in striking contrast to the white
sands at their feet, and the entrance to the narrow passage separating
it from Friday Island is just visible, looking like the mouth of a
picturesque inlet. White sails on the sea, white houses clustering
here and there on the shore, make a scene gay with color and sparkling
with sunshine.

"The flag's up, Tom," says a voice; "she's just rounding Goode
Island," and the speaker, approaching, lays his hand on the smoker's
shoulder.

"Heaps of time," returns Tom, knocking his pipe out; "but I suppose I
may as well get ready."

"Take a turn on the beach first," replies the new-comer, "I have
something more to tell you."

They stroll on until they stand close to the lapping wavelets kissing
the shell-strewn strand, then Annett, a man some five or six years
older than his partner, Tom Duckworth, speaks: "The main thing, of
course, as you know, is to find out the whereabouts of Ras Mahad." Tom
nodded. "Hillsden knows, but, if he won't tell, I don't exactly see
how you are to make him; that is, without letting him into our
confidence, and he's too big a scamp for that. But we discussed all
this before. What I have to tell you is this. You remember the boy
Djuran we picked up adrift on that proa, half--starved. He knows quite
as much about what we want to find out as Ras Mahad himself. Comes
from the same place, probably a relation of some sort. I heard last
night that he was on the nor'-west coast, and it's my belief that Ras
Mahad is there too, so, if you can make nothing out of Hillsden when
you're down, we'll go round there and see."

"I don't see why Hillsden should refuse to tell me what he knows."

"Simply because he is one of those suspicious, grasping rogues who
would immediately suspect that you had some ulterior motive in asking
the question."--

"Which I have," interrupted Tom.

"True; but whether you had or not he would presume that you had, and
tell you a lie on principle. It's one satisfaction to know that, if
you get nothing out of him, he'll get nothing out of you."

Tom smiled grimly; the reticence of his nature was well known in
Torres' Strait.

"Here she comes round the point," went on Annett, "You'll go and see
Ruth as soon as ever you get down;" and the two men turned back to the
hotel.

The E. and A. steamer slowed down and picked up the water-police boat
with the resident and customs-officer on board, then, after a brief
interval, went alongside the hulk, made fast, and immediately a
furious blast on the whistle proclaimed the fact that she had no time
to waste at Thursday Island.

The agent's boat, with its smart-looking coloured crew, had just
returned from the steamer and was waiting at the boat jetty when the
partners came down, both now dressed in immaculate white, the luggage
was put in and the two men were soon alongside the China boat. From
the greetings Tom received as he stepped on board, it was evident that
he was both well--known and well-liked. The cargo was rapidly
transhipped to the hulk, the third whistle blew, and with a warm
handshake the two men parted.

The Moccasins of Silence