|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmcbv
 

hed me to resume the interrupted conversation.
"What about Cesar?" I asked anxiously.
"Canallia! Let him hang there," was his answer. And he went on
talking over the business in hand calmly, while I tried vainly to
dismiss from my mind the picture of Cesar steeped to the chin in
the water of the old harbour, a decoction of centuries of marine
refuse. I tried to dismiss it, because the mere notion of that
liquid made me feel very sick. Presently Dominic, hailing an idle
boatman, directed him to go and fish his nephew out; and by-and-by
Cesar appeared walking on board from the quay, shivering, streaming
with filthy water, with bits of rotten straws in his hair and a
piece of dirty orange-peel stranded on his shoulder. His teeth
chattered; his yellow eyes squinted balefully at us as he passed
forward. I thought it my duty to remonstrate.
"Why are you always knocking him about, Dominic?" I asked. Indeed,
I felt convinced it was no earthly good - a sheer waste of muscular
force.
"I must try to make a man of him," Dominic answered hopelessly.
I restrained the obvious retort that in this way he ran the risk of
making, in the words of the immortal Mr. Mantalini, "a demnition
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmarw