Almayer again raised his head and, in the accents of a man accustomed to the buffets of evil fortune, asked, hardly audibly: “I suppose you haven't got such a thing as a pony on board?” I told him, almost in a whisper, for he attuned my communications to his minor key, that we had such a thing as a pony, and I hinted, as gently as I could, that he was confoundedly in the way, too. I was very anxious to have him landed before I began to handle the cargo. Almayer remained looking up at me for a long while, with incredulous and melancholy eyes, as though it were not a safe thing to believe in my statement. This pathetic mistrust in the favourable issue of any sort of affair touched me deeply, and I added: “He doesn't seem a bit the worse for the passage. He's a nice pony, too.” Almayer was not to be cheered up; for all answer he cleared his throat and looked down again at his feet. I tried to close with him on another tack. “By Jove!” I said. “Aren't you afraid of catching pneumonia or bronchitis or some thing, walking about in a singlet in such a wet fog?” He was not to be propitiated by a show of interest in his health. His answer was a sinister “No fear,” as much as to say that even that way of escape from inclement fortune was closed to him. “I just came down . . .” he mumbled after a while. “Well, then, now you're here I will land that pony for you at once, and you can lead him home. I really don't want him on deck. He's in the way.” Almayer seemed doubtful. I insisted: “Why, I will just swing him out and land him on the wharf right in front of you. I'd much rather do it before the hatches are off. The little devil may jump down the hold or do some other deadly thing.” “There's a halter?” postulated Almayer. “Yes, of course there's a halter.” And without waiting any more I leaned over the bridge rail. “Serang, land Tuan Almayer's pony.”