CHAPTER XIX. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. ‘Alors, now I am also a murderer. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. Her mind left her. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. “—but this cannot be. "Quite sorry, my good friend, there should have been any misunderstanding between us," observed the woollen-draper. Best assured of that.
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