For desperate ills, desperate remedies. Drawing alongside the quay, where Mr. Tregaskis and the two seamen had landed and stood waiting, the Commandant called upon his best service voice, concealing the shake in it: "Mr. Tregaskis!" "Sir?" "I desire a word with you." "Yes, sir." "And in private," went on the Commandant, stepping ashore and marching straight up the steps. "Certainly, sir." After all, and not so long ago, Major Vigoureux had been Governor and Chief Magistrate of the Islands, with power to inflict fine and imprisonment. Mr. Tregaskis (conscious, perhaps, of some close dealings in the not remote past) turned obediently and led the way to his shop door at the corner of the hill, thence through the shop, and thence to the threshold of a dark parlour behind it, into which he was passing when the Commandant's voice brought him to a stand. "We will talk here, if you please," said the Commandant. "Certainly, sir," Mr. Tregaskis turned about. "I want," said the Commandant, "half a pound of your best tea, half a dozen new laid eggs, an amount of bacon which I leave to you, and a pot of marmalade." "With pleasure, sir. Anything I can do----" "And on credit." "As I said sir--to be sure--and hoping that I have given satisfaction hitherto--" Mr. Tregaskis, still a trifle flurried, fell to rubbing his hands together, thus producing an appearance of haste before he actually collected himself and hurried to execute the order. "Good God!" thought the Commandant to himself. "Am I browbeating this man?" He watched as Mr. Tregaskis cut and weighed out the butter and bacon and tied them up into parcels, with the help of a small boy summoned from the back premises; or rather, the small boy (Melk by name, which was short for Melchisedek) did the weighing and tying while Mr. Tregaskis stood over him and exhorted him to look sharp, or he'd never make a grocer. The steward watched from the doorway, puffing a cigarette, and expressed a hope that he was not excluding the light. The Commandant wished him a thousand miles away. Sergeant Archelaus had borrowed a light trolley from the quay; the two seamen had loaded it; and already Madame's luggage was half-way up the hill, and must infallibly reach the Barracks before Madame's breakfast could overtake it. "And when would you like it sent, sir?" asked Mr. Tregaskis, nodding at the piles on the counter. "Sent?" echoed the Commandant. "I beg your pardon," he went on hastily. "I had meant to ask you for the loan of a basket. I will carry the things myself." "Indeed, sir?" Mr. Tregaskis hesitated. "You are welcome to a basket, of course, if you think it wise." "I am not ashamed to be seen carrying a basket, Mr. Tregaskis." "No, indeed, sir! But the hill being steep--and a little exercise would do Melk, here, all the good in the world." "I prefer to carry the goods myself, I thank you." (Was everybody in a conspiracy to take the Commandant for a very old man?)