"You have had enough, Almayer," said the lieutenant, as he lighted a
cigar. "Is it not time to deliver to us your prisoner? I take it you
have that Dain Maroola stowed away safely somewhere. Still we had better
get that business over, and then we shall have more drink. Come! don't
look at me like this."
Almayer was staring with stony eyes, his trembling fingers fumbling about
his throat.
"Gold," he said with difficulty. "Hem! A hand on the windpipe, you
know. Sure you will excuse. I wanted to say--a little gold for a little
powder. What's that?"
"I know, I know," said the lieutenant soothingly.
"No! You don't know. Not one of you knows!" shouted Almayer. "The
government is a fool, I tell you. Heaps of gold. I am the man that
knows; I and another one. But he won't speak. He is--"
He checked himself with a feeble smile, and, making an unsuccessful
attempt to pat the officer on the shoulder, knocked over a couple of
empty bottles.
"Personally you are a fine fellow," he said very distinctly, in a
patronising manner. His head nodded drowsily as he sat muttering to
himself.
The two officers looked at each other helplessly.
"This won't do," said the lieutenant, addressing his junior.
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