What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. Take it," he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.
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