Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad (best ebook reader for chromebook .txt) 📕

wish to try for one more chance⁠—for some other grave⁠—struggled in his breast. From the outline the figure presented it seemed to him that the white man there, backed up by all the power of the land, was examining his position through binoculars. Brown jumped up on the log, throwing his arms up, the palms outwards. The coloured group closed round the white man, and fell back twice before he got clear of them, walking slowly alone. Brown remained standing on the log till Jim, appearing and disappearing between the patches of thorny scrub, had nearly reached the creek; then Brown jumped off and went down to meet him on his side.

“They met, I should think, not very far from the place, perhaps on the very spot, where Jim took the second desperate leap of his life⁠—the leap that landed him into the life of Patusan, into the trust, the love, the confidence of the people. They faced each other across the creek, and with steady eyes tried to understand each other before they opened their lips. Their antagonism must have been expressed in their glances; I know that Brown hated Jim at first sight. Whatever hopes he might have had vanished at once. This was not the man he had expected to see. He hated him for this⁠—and in a checked flannel shirt with sleeves cut off at the elbows, grey bearded, with a sunken, sun-blackened face⁠—he cursed in his heart the other’s youth and assurance, his clear eyes and his untroubled bearing. That fellow had got in a long way before him! He did not look like a man who would be willing to give anything for assistance. He had all the advantages on his side⁠—possession, security, power; he was on the side of an overwhelming force! He was not hungry and desperate, and he did not seem in the least afraid. And there was something in the very neatness of Jim’s clothes, from the white helmet to the canvas leggings and the pipeclayed shoes, which in Brown’s sombre irritated eyes seemed to belong to things he had in the very shaping of his life condemned and flouted.

“ ‘Who are you?’ asked Jim at last, speaking in his usual voice. ‘My name’s Brown,’ answered the other, loudly; ‘Captain Brown. What’s yours?’ and Jim after a little pause went on quietly, as if he had not heard: ‘What made you come here?’ ‘You want to know,’ said Brown bitterly. ‘It’s easy to tell. Hunger. And what made you?’

“ ‘The fellow started at this,’ said Brown, relating to me the opening of this strange conversation between those two men, separated only by the muddy bed of a creek, but standing on the opposite poles of that conception of life which includes all mankind⁠—‘The fellow started at this and got very red in the face. Too big to be questioned, I suppose. I told him that if he looked upon me as a dead man with whom you may take liberties, he himself was not a whit better off really. I had a fellow up there who had a bead drawn on him all the time, and only waited for a sign from me. There was nothing to be shocked at in this. He had come down of his own free will. “Let us agree,” said I, “that we are both dead men, and let us talk on that basis, as equals. We are all equal before death,” I said. I admitted I was there like a rat in a trap, but we had been driven to it, and even a trapped rat can give a bite. He caught me up in a moment. “Not if you don’t go near the trap till the rat is dead.” I told him that sort of game was good enough for these native friends of his, but I would have thought him too white to serve even a rat so. Yes, I had wanted to talk with him. Not to beg for my life, though. My fellows were⁠—well⁠—what they were⁠—men like himself, anyhow. All we wanted from him was to come on in the devil’s name and have it out. “God d⁠—n it,” said I, while he stood there as still as a wooden post, “you don’t want to come out here every day with your glasses to count how many of us are left on our feet. Come. Either bring your infernal crowd along or let us go out and starve in the open sea, by God! You have been white once, for all your tall talk of this being your own people and you being one with them. Are you? And what the devil do you get for it; what is it you’ve found here that is so d⁠—d precious? Hey? You don’t want us to come down here perhaps⁠—do you? You are two hundred to one. You don’t want us to come down into the open. Ah! I promise you we shall give you some sport before you’ve done. You talk about me making a cowardly set upon unoffending people. What’s that to me that they are unoffending, when I am starving for next to no offence? But I am not a coward. Don’t you be one. Bring them along or, by all the fiends, we shall yet manage to send half your unoffending town to heaven with us in smoke!” ’

“He was terrible⁠—relating this to me⁠—this tortured skeleton of a man drawn up together with his face over his knees, upon a miserable bed in that wretched hovel, and lifting his head to look at me with malignant triumph.

“ ‘That’s what I told him⁠—I knew what to say,’ he began again, feebly at first, but working himself up with incredible speed into a fiery utterance of his scorn. ‘We aren’t going into the forest to wander like a string of living skeletons dropping one after another for ants to go to work upon us before we are fairly dead. Oh no!⁠ ⁠… “You don’t deserve