The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

156 THE FOOT OF TIME
your note—your tragic S.O.S.? And now I find
you out-of-doors a free man and spooning with
your blasted dusky maiden!"
"I won't vouch for her maidenhood," rejoined
Pinkerton with asperity of tone, "but I wish to
Heaven you'd learn horse-sense and conform to custom
here."
"Conform to hell!" answered Bruce. "What on
earth possessed you to write me that note?"
"All bluff, old boy. Bluff on their part, I mean.
The blighters captured me for the space of about
ten minutes, furnished me with pencil and paper,
threatened me with battle, murder, and sudden
death, and let me go."
"But—but I don't understand."
"A put-up job to get me to write you. I
imagined they would put restraint on your movements,
prevent me seeing you, and leave you guessing,
to extract obedience and all that sort of tripe."
"They did," Bruce told him, "but I got away."
Pinkerton gave out a hollow laugh. "Better come
off your bloody perch, old bean," he advised. If
you take my advice I'd sink your old womanish
ideas and take less water with it; then, perhaps,
you'd see sense. God, damn it, man!" Brian suddenly
shot out, losing his temper, "She's pretty
enough, isn't she?"
"Oh, go to hell!" Bruce said, and returned to his
quarters.
All that day Swinton was left religiously alone
but for the attention of his servant. He spent the
day studying, in which he became so immersed that
THE FOOT OF TIME
157
at nightfall he failed to hear the approaching footsteps
of Molota.
She came softly up behind him, put her soft hand
on his shoulder.
"Molota 'ope you quite well to-night, Monsieur
Bruce. You great strong bully, breaking my pauve
Tuamontian 'eads," the girl remarked, then went
into peals of laughter.
Her victim jumped up, furious with anger. "You
little devil, you!" he began, then seized hold of
her. What his intention was he had no idea, but a
vague urge to beat her came to him. Ere he could
lay his hands upon anything with which to chastise
the vixen she gave him a reproving box on his ear.
It was an extremely light blow, if blow at all; still,
there it was, and the affront further angered the
man.
"I'll teach you," he began, and took her more
roughly to do it.
Crushed in his arms, Molota looked up at him.
"Oui, beat me, please, Monsieur Bruce," she urged.
"From you, Molota like much, such rough 'ouse!"
Her soft, little mouth was raised to his, unresisting.
Something snapped in Bruce. He gazed at her loveliness,
wondering how to deal with her. Her lovely
mouth seemed to tell him, and the morning sun
peeping through a cranny in the but found him
asleep in her arms—his auburn, curly head was
pillowed against her soft breast; her cheek was
against it.