An Outcast of the Islands | Page 6

and, after knocking about for a time in the eddies of town life, had
drifted out enigmatically into the sunny solitudes of the Indian Ocean. The memory of the
Californian stranger was perpetuated in the game of poker--which became popular in the
capital of Celebes from that time--and in a powerful cocktail, the recipe for which is
transmitted--in the Kwang-tung dialect--from head boy to head boy of the Chinese
servants in the Sunda Hotel even to this day. Willems was a connoisseur in the drink and
an adept at the game. Of those accomplishments he was moderately proud. Of the
confidence reposed in him by Hudig--the master--he was boastfully and obtrusively
proud. This arose from his great benevolence, and from an exalted sense of his duty to
himself and the world at large. He experienced that irresistible impulse to impart
information which is inseparable from gross ignorance. There is always some one thing
which the ignorant man knows, and that thing is the only thing worth knowing; it fills the
ignorant man's universe. Willems knew all about himself. On the day when, with many
misgivings, he ran away from a Dutch East-Indiaman in Samarang roads, he had
commenced that study of himself, of his own ways, of his own abilities, of those
fate-compelling qualities of his which led him toward that lucrative position which he
now filled. Being of a modest and diffident nature, his successes amazed, almost
frightened him, and ended--as he got over the succeeding shocks of surprise--by making
him ferociously conceited. He believed in his genius and in his knowledge of the world.
Others should know of it also; for their own good and for his greater glory. All those
friendly men who slapped him on the back and greeted him noisily should have the
benefit of his example. For that he must talk. He talked to them conscientiously. In the
afternoon he expounded his theory of success over the little tables, dipping now and then
his moustache in the crushed ice of the cocktails; in the evening he would often hold forth,
cue in hand, to a young listener across the billiard table. The billiard balls stood still as if
listening also, under the vivid brilliance of the shaded oil lamps hung low over the cloth;
while away in the shadows of the big room the Chinaman marker would lean wearily
against the wall, the blank mask of his face looking pale under the mahogany
marking-board; his eyelids dropped in the drowsy fatigue of late hours and in the buzzing
monotony of the unintelligible stream of words poured out by the white man. In a sudden
pause of the talk the game would recommence with a sharp click and go on for a time in
the flowing soft whirr and the subdued thuds as the balls rolled zig-zagging towards the
inevitably successful cannon. Through the big windows and the open doors the salt
dampness of the sea, the vague smell of mould and flowers from the garden of the hotel
drifted in and mingled with the odour of lamp oil, growing heavier as the night advanced.
The players' heads dived into the light as they bent down for the stroke, springing back
again smartly into the greenish gloom of broad lamp-shades; the clock ticked
methodically; the unmoved Chinaman continuously repeated the score in a lifeless voice,
like a big talking doll--and Willems would win the game. With a remark that it was
getting late, and that he was a married man, he would say a patronizing good-night and

step out into the long, empty street. At that hour its white dust was like a dazzling streak
of moonlight where the eye sought repose in the dimmer gleam of rare oil lamps.
Willems walked homewards, following the line of walls overtopped by the luxuriant
vegetation of the front gardens. The houses right and left were hidden behind the black
masses of flowering shrubs. Willems had the street to himself. He would walk in the
middle, his shadow gliding obsequiously before him. He looked down on it complacently.
The shadow of a successful man! He would be slightly dizzy with the cocktails and with
the intoxication of his own glory. As he often told people, he came east fourteen years
ago--a cabin boy. A small boy. His shadow must have been very small at that time; he
thought with a smile that he was not aware then he had anything--even a shadow--which
he dared call his own. And now he was looking at the shadow of the confidential clerk of
Hudig & Co. going home. How glorious! How good was life for those that were on the
winning side! He had won the game of life; also the game of billiards. He walked faster,
jingling his winnings, and thinking