The officers look
at one another in mute comment on the unaccountable pepperiness of
their commander.)
SIR HOWARD (suavely). Mr. Rankin will be present, I presume.
KEARNEY (angrily). Rahnkin! Who is Rahnkin?
SIR HOWARD. Our host the missionary.
KEARNEY (subsiding unwillingly). Oh! Rahnkin, is he? He'd better
look sharp or he'll be late. (Again exploding.) What are they
doing with those prisoners?
Rankin hurries in, and takes his place near Sir Howard.
SIR HOWARD. This is Mr. Rankin, Captain Kearney.
RANKIN. Excuse my delay, Captain Kearney. The leddy sent me on an
errand. (Kearney grunts.) I thought I should be late. But the
first thing I heard when I arrived was your officer giving your
compliments to Leddy Ceecily, and would she kindly allow the
prisoners to come in, as you were anxious to see her again. Then I
knew I was in time.
KEARNEY. Oh, that was it, was it? May I ask, sir, did you notice
any sign on Lady Waynflete's part of cawmplying with that verry
moderate request?
LADY CICELY (outside). Coming, coming.
The prisoners are brought in by a guard of armed bluejackets.
Drinkwater first, again elaborately clean, and conveying by a
virtuous and steadfast smirk a cheerful confidence in his
innocence. Johnson solid and inexpressive, Redbrook unconcerned
and debonair, Marzo uneasy. These four form a little group
together on the captain's left. The rest wait unintelligently on
Providence in a row against the wall on the same side, shepherded
by the bluejackets.
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