Marston made a sign of agreement. His head ached and he felt languid. It was possible he had a mild dose of fever. "I fix you," said the mulatto, who pulled out a small brass box and emptied some brown powder on the table. "You drink him in hot water." "Thank you," said Marston and scraped the stuff onto a piece of paper, thinking he might experiment with it. The fellow could have no object for trying to poison him and he understood the half-breeds knew some useful cures. "Now you dash me a drink," said the other, looking at a bottle of whisky in the rack, and Marston rather wondered why he took down the bottle. The whisky was extra good; he did not like mulattoes, and knew no reason for his entertaining his uninvited guest. Yet he put a glass on the table; one glass. He imagined the other understood the significance of this, for his eyes momentarily narrowed. It was strange, but they now looked blue. For all that, he poured out a liberal measure of whisky and drank slowly, like a connoisseur. Marston studied him with some curiosity and on the whole felt repelled. The old fellow looked cunning and greedy, but not debased. One got a hint of cruelty and power, and his manner was very calm. In West Africa, Marston would perhaps have kicked him out, but pure white men are not numerous on the south and west coasts of the Caribbean and the distinction of color is relaxed. Besides, he reflected, he was engaged in trading with the natives. "You lib for here for buy thing," the other remarked presently. "What thing you want?" Marston mentioned some articles Wyndham had talked about, and the other nodded. "You go make me dash and you get them thing. Agent man fool man; him no savvy black man's way in bush." "If the stuff comes along, we'll talk about the dash," Marston answered cautiously, although he did not like his visitor and wondered when he would go. "When white cappy come back?" the old fellow asked. "In the morning, I expect," said Marston with a yawn. The other got up as if he were going, and turned sideways in order to pass between the swing-table and the locker. There was not much room, for one does not lean against a swing-table, which keeps its level by a counterbalance underneath when the vessel rolls. It looked as if the mulatto knew this, and Marston thought it strange. Next moment, however, he struck his naked foot against the fastenings in the deck and, stumbling, put his arm on the table. The table tilted and the medicine chest slipped off. It turned over as it fell and emptied bottles, packets, scales, and measures on the deck.