pushed forward, resembling an inquisitive goat bent on some unlawful
expedition. Attentive eyes watched his movements. Jim-Eng, descrying
Babalatchi far away, would shake off the stupor of an habitual opium
smoker and, tottering on to the middle of the road, would await the
approach of that important person, ready with hospitable invitation. But
Babalatchi's discretion was proof even against the combined assaults of
good fellowship and of strong gin generously administered by the open-
hearted Chinaman. Jim-Eng, owning himself beaten, was left uninformed
with the empty bottle, and gazed sadly after the departing form of the
statesman of Sambir pursuing his devious and unsteady way, which, as
usual, led him to Almayer's compound. Ever since a reconciliation had
been effected by Dain Maroola between his white friend and the Rajah, the
one-eyed diplomatist had again become a frequent guest in the Dutchman's
house. To Almayer's great disgust he was to be seen there at all times,
strolling about in an abstracted kind of way on the verandah, skulking in
the passages, or else popping round unexpected corners, always willing to
engage Mrs. Almayer in confidential conversation. He was very shy of the
master himself, as if suspicious that the pent-up feelings of the white
man towards his person might find vent in a sudden kick. But the cooking
shed was his favourite place, and he became an habitual guest there,
squatting for hours amongst the busy women, with his chin resting on his
knees, his lean arms clasped round his legs, and his one eye roving
uneasily--the very picture of watchful ugliness. Almayer wanted more
than once to complain to Lakamba of his Prime Minister's intrusion, but
Dain dissuaded him. "We cannot say a word here that he does not hear,"
growled Almayer.

"Then come and talk on board the brig," retorted Dain, with a quiet
smile. "It is good to let the man come here. Lakamba thinks he knows
much. Perhaps the Sultan thinks I want to run away. Better let the one-