The chiquot had many terrors to the Krooboys, the water few. It was as much out of forgetfulness as anything else that they had not brought their passenger to shore with them. Besides, how were they to know that he could not swim as well as themselves (that is, about as well as a seal can swim)? But they were not above striking a bargain for their services. A black head, served upon a white pother of creamy surf, gave tongue.
"Oh, Smith. You give cash, suppose we fit for catch 'im?"
"You lib for beach with my clerk, and I dash you one whole box of gin. Hurry up now, you thieves, or a shark will chop him, or else he'll drown."
Heads disappeared, and many pairs of black heels kicked upwards. The old man hitched together his shabby pyjamas, and stared industriously at the broken water through his eyeglass. "It's all very well for this K. O'Neill to send out letters that the firm is going to double its business," he grumbled, "but if they don't send me men that can get ashore in one piece, how this factory at Malla-Nulla is going to buck up, I can't see. By Jove, they've got him, the beggars. Red-headed chap, too. Well, I might have saved that dash, I'm thinking. Men with red heads never seem to stand the climate here for long. It will be a nuisance if the beggar pegs out within the month, after I've spent a case of gin on him."
It was a very limp and bedraggled Carter that was brought ashore presently by the Krooboys. He was held up by the heels, _more Africano_, to let the Atlantic drain from his inside back into its proper place, but he did not show any sign of consciousness till he had been lifted up and carried to the shelter of the retail store.
Swizzle-Stick Smith limped beside him, puffing at his briar. "Beggar's got an arm broken," he commented. "Just my luck. And K. O'Neill will expect the work to be done just the same. Oh"--he said when the dripping Krooboys had put down his guest on the counter--"so you've concluded to come to your senses again?"
Carter shuddered and slowly opened his eyes. A brown cockroach, horrible with dust, dropped from the rafter above onto his face.
"I'm afraid you've had rather a rough bout of it, landing, my lad. It's a very bad beach to-day. There, don't move. You're all right. You'll feel a bit queer yet."