She had taken a hand in a number of games after that. A fast
yacht is a handy vessel south of the line, and some queer tales were
told about the boat that had once shown her heels to the crackerjacks in
the Solent. But I couldn't afford to be particular at that moment.
Levuka isn't the spot where a man can pick and choose, so I wiped the
shell grit from my drill suit and told myself that I had better accept
the berth instead of waiting in expectation of something better turning
up. Pierre the Rat, who ran "The Rathole," where penniless seamen and
beachcombers lodged, was my creditor, and when Pierre was very
solicitous in obtaining employment for one of his boarders, it was a
mighty good intimation that the boarder's credit had reached highwater
mark.
"Well," I said, climbing to my feet, "I might as well take it. I thought
I had enough of the Islands, but as this has turned up I'm your man.
Say," I added, "did you ever read Pilgrim's Progress'?"
The young fellow looked at me and grinned. "Yes, I did," he answered.
"Do you remember much of it?" I asked.
"Not much," he replied.
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