Читать книгу The Dark River онлайн

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"Do you think we can make it on that?" McLeod asked.

"Sure," said Tihoni. "This ain't the first time I've had to do it. Mebbe I can borrow an old spare when we get to Taravao. That's the village on the Isthmus where we'll stop to have lunch."

"How's the old fellow upstairs? Still asleep?"

"Upstairs...?" Suddenly the driver smote his low forehead. "I forgot all about him," he said. "Ain't he off yet?"

"I haven't seen him go," said McLeod.

"He belongs in Punaauia," said Tihoni. "That's ten kilometres back. Hey, Méa!"

The supercargo glanced up from his work, grinning with brazen delight at the dressing-down given him by the driver. The old native on the roof was awakened and slid to the ground much refreshed, turning at once to receive the demijohn that Méa lowered after him. It was filled with red wine, which he shared generously with the passengers. He offered the cup to McLeod, who drained it with relish, patting his stomach and murmuring "Maitai! Maitai!" as he handed it back. The others smiled with pleasure at this venture into their own speech, and a merry time was had while the repairs were being finished. Then all climbed aboard again except the old man himself, who sat by the side of the road, his greatly lightened demijohn between his knees, smiling and waving his tin cup in farewell as the bus proceeded on its way.