"No, he seems more of a fool than a knave; I have heard of him," returned
the senior.
They sat around the table. Almayer with shaking hands made gin
cocktails, offered them all round, and drank himself, with every gulp
feeling stronger, steadier, and better able to face all the difficulties
of his position. Ignorant of the fate of the brig he did not suspect the
real object of the officer's visit. He had a general notion that
something must have leaked out about the gunpowder trade, but apprehended
nothing beyond some temporary inconveniences. After emptying his glass
he began to chat easily, lying back in his chair with one of his legs
thrown negligently over the arm. The lieutenant astride on his chair, a
glowing cheroot in the corner of his mouth, listened with a sly smile
from behind the thick volumes of smoke that escaped from his compressed
lips. The young sub-lieutenant, leaning with both elbows on the table,
his head between his hands, looked on sleepily in the torpor induced by
fatigue and the gin. Almayer talked on--
"It is a great pleasure to see white faces here. I have lived here many
years in great solitude. The Malays, you understand, are not company for
a white man; moreover they are not friendly; they do not understand our
ways.
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