"
"Not they. Take me there, and I can look after myself."
So he was brought to Madame Binat's and filled his nostrils with the well-
remembered smell of the East, that runs without a change from the Canal head to
Hong-Kong, and his mouth with the villainous Lingua Franca of the Levant. The
heat smote him between the shoulder-blades with the buffet of an old friend,
his feet slipped on the sand, and his coat-sleeve was warm as new-baked bread
when he lifted it to his nose.
Madame Binat smiled with the smile that knows no astonishment when Dick entered
the drinking-shop which was one source of her gains. But for a little accident
of complete darkness he could hardly realise that he had ever quitted the old
life that hummed in his ears. Somebody opened a bottle of peculiarly strong
Schiedam. The smell reminded Dick of Monsieur Binat, who, by the way, had
spoken of art and degradation.
Binat was dead; Madame said as much when the doctor departed, scandalised, so
far as a ship's doctor can be, at the warmth of Dick's reception. Dick was
delighted at it. "They remember me here after a year. They have forgotten me
across the water by this time. Madame, I want a long talk with you when you're
at liberty. It is good to be back again.
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