Annan was inclined to urge me to an immediate decision, in spite of his previously unfavourable account of the interior as a pleasure resort, but as Olympio’s boy at this point made his appearance to briefly announce that “chop live for table,” I broke up the meeting and adjourned for lunch. We had hardly sat down to table, however, when the sound of a gun was heard from seaward, and presently a small boy ran in to tell us that “sailing ship come from windward.” Olympio and I together ran out to the compound gate to examine the stranger, and were just in time to see the _Lady Jane_ swing round to her anchor, while a crowd of hands swarmed aloft to stow the sails. Already the solitary surf-boat belonging to Adena was creeping out across the blue water like some huge marine beetle, so, as the brig lay out at a good safe distance from the shore, we returned to finish our meal. The last banana fritter (a particularly greasy one) had just been flopped on to my plate by the attentive Kwaku when a heavy step sounded in the compound, and the massive form of Captain Bithery appeared in the doorway. He was clothed in white from head to foot, and in his aspect somewhat suggested a much over-heated polar bear. “Well, Englefield, my buck,” he exclaimed in his great sea voice, bringing his huge hand down with a thwack on my shoulder, “here you are then, all sound and ship-shape, eating as usual--never saw such a fellow to eat. Had much fever?” “Haven’t had any,” said I a trifle boastfully. “Nonsense! No fever? and a dark man like you, too! Well, you’ve been deuced lucky, that’s all.” “Why, do dark men get more fever than fair men?” I asked. “They seem to. It’s odd, but I think it’s a fact. The chap who gets let off most easily by this infernal climate is your good old sandy-headed, purple-nosed Scotchman--that is, if he doesn’t get his little finger too curly. Yes, Olympio,” he continued, turning to the little mulatto, “the great thing in this climate is temperance, hey?” “Oh, certainly, certainly, Captain,” replied Olympio a little shyly, setting down on the table the tumbler of gin and water from which he was about to take a sip; “no doubt of it, sir.” “Of course,” continued the Captain. “Now, look at me. Did you ever see me drink a cocktail, Olympio?” “I don’t know that I ever did, sir,” replied Olympio. “Would you like to?” asked the Captain, grinning. “Not particularly, sir,” answered the little mulatto. “Oh,” said the Captain, rather taken aback at the failure of his joke, “because if you would, I see there is a swizzle-stick hanging on the wall, and I’m not bigoted, you know.” Here he stared stonily at the perplexed Olympio until the latter, suddenly grasping the situation, made a dive at the sideboard cupboard and handed out a black bottle with a quill stuck through the cork and a high-shouldered stone jar.