A Handful of Dust - Evelyn Waugh [89]
I shall be able to get a boat? I appreciate all your kindness to me more than I can say but..." "My friend, any kindness I may have shown is amply repaid by your reading of Dickens. Do not let us mention the subject again." "Well I'm very glad you have enjoyed it. I have, too. But I really must be thinking of getting back..." "Yes," said Mr. Todd. "The black man was like that. He thought of it all the time. But he died here..." Twice during the next day Tony opened the subject but his host was evasive. Finally he said, "Forgive me, Mr. Todd, but I really must press the point. When can I get a boat?" "There is no boat." "Well, the Indians can build one." "You must wait for the rains. There is not enough water in the river now." "How long will that be?" "A month... two months..." They had finished Bleak House and were nearing the end of Dombey and Son when the rain came. "Now it is time to make preparations to go." "Oh, that is impossible. The Indians will not make a boat during the rainy season-it is one of their superstitions." "You might have told me." "Did I not mention it? I forgot." Next morning Tony went out alone while his host was busy, and, looking as aimless as he could, strolled across the savannah to the group of Indian houses. There were four or five Pie-wies sitting in one of the doorways. They did not look up as he approached them. He addressed them in the few words of Macushi he had acquired during the journey but they made no sign whether they understood him or not. Then he drew a sketch of a canoe in the sand, he went through some vague motions of carpentry, pointed from them to him, then made motions of giving something to them and scratched out the outlines of a gun and a hat and a few other recognisable articles of trade. One of the women giggled but no one gave any sign of comprehension, and he went away unsatisfied. At their midday meal Mr. Todd said, "Mr. Last, the Indians tell me that you have been trying to speak with them. It is easier that you say anything you wish through me. You realise, do you not, that they would do nothing without my authority. They regard themselves, quite rightly in many cases, as my children." "Well, as a matter of fact, I was asking them about a canoe." "So they gave me to understand... and now if you have finished your meal perhaps we might have another chapter. I am quite absorbed in the book." They finished Dombey and Son; nearly a year had passed since Tony had left England, and his gloomy foreboding of permanent exile became suddenly acute when, between the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit, he found a document written in pencil in irregular characters. Year 1919. I James Todd of Brazil do swear to Barnabas Washington of Georgetown that if he finish this book in fact Martin Chuzzlewit I will let him go away back as soon as finished. There followed a heavy pencil X and after it: Mr. Todd made this mark signed Barnabas Washington. "Mr. Todd," said Tony, "I must speak frankly. You saved my life, and when I get back to civilization I will reward you to the best of my ability. I will give you anything within reason. But at present you are keeping me here against my will. I demand to be released." "But, my friend, what is keeping you? You are under no restraint. Go when you like." "You know very well that I can't get away without your help." "In that case you must humour an old man. Read me another chapter." "Mr. Todd, I swear by anything you like that when I get to Man� I will find someone to take my place. I will pay a man to read to you all day." But I have no need of another man. You read so well." "I have read for the last time." "I hope not," said Mr. Todd politely. That evening at supper only one plate of dried meat and farine was brought in and Mr. Todd ate alone. Tony lay without speaking, staring at the thatch. Next day at noon a single plate was put before Mr. Todd but with it lay his gun, cocked, on his knee, as he ate. Tony resumed the reading of Martin Chuzzlewit where it had been interrupted. Weeks passed hopelessly. They read Nicholas Nickleby and Little Dorrit