"Robert Stevenson, Lloyd Osbourne. The Wrecker (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"A yacht in your eye!" said a Glasgow voice. "Look at her red ensign! A
yacht! not much she isn't!"

"You can close the store, anyway, Tom," observed a gentlemanly German. "Bon
jour, mon Prince!" he added, as a dark, intelligent native cantered by on a
neat chestnut. "Vous allez boire un verre de biere?"

But Prince Stanilas Moanatini, the only reasonably busy human creature on
the island, was riding hot-spur to view this morning's landslip on the
mountain road: the sun already visibly declined; night was imminent; and if
he would avoid the perils of darkness and precipice, and the fear of the
dead, the haunters of the jungle, he must for once decline a hospitable
invitation. Even had he been minded to alight, it presently appeared there
would be difficulty as to the refreshment offered.

"Beer!" cried the Glasgow voice. "No such a thing; I tell you there's only
eight bottles in the club! Here's the first time I've seen British colours
in this port! and the man that sails under them has got to drink that
beer."

The proposal struck the public mind as fair, though far from cheering; for
some time back, indeed, the very name of beer had been a sound of sorrow in
the club, and the evenings had passed in dolorous computation.

"Here is Havens," said one, as if welcoming a fresh topic. "What do you
think of her, Havens?"

"I don't think," replied Havens, a tall, bland, cool-looking, leisurely
Englishman, attired in spotless duck, and deliberately dealing with a
cigarette. "I may say I know. She's consigned to me from Auckland by Donald
& Edenborough. I am on my way aboard."

"What ship is she?" asked the ancient mariner.

"Haven't an idea," returned Havens. "Some tramp they have chartered."

With that he placidly resumed his walk, and was soon seated in the
stern-sheets of a whaleboat manned by uproarious Kanakas, himself daintily
perched out of the way of the least maculation, giving his commands in an
unobtrusive, dinner-table tone of voice, and sweeping neatly enough
alongside the schooner.

A weather-beaten captain received him at the gangway.

"You are consigned to us, I think," said he. "I am Mr. Havens."

"That is right, sir," replied the captain, shaking hands. "You will find
the owner, Mr. Dodd, below. Mind the fresh paint on the house."

Havens stepped along the alley-way, and descended the ladder into the main