He looked at me searchingly for some moments, and then, going over to a thick gorse-bush, he knelt down and groped underneath and presently produced a thick pile of papers and circulars. “I wonder whether you would like to do anything in these? These West Australians are good. They’re right down to 65. If you can hold on, a sure thing. If you would like a couple of thousand now....” he was nervously biting his nails; then he said, “Could you spare me a cigarette?” I produced my case and handed him one. “Thanks very much,” he said. “They don’t like me to smoke at home,” and he waved his hand towards the north. I followed the direction, and just caught sight of the top of a gable of a large red-brick building through the trees. So this was the solution! “This is a glorious place,” I said. This seemed a very harmless platitude and one not likely to drive a being to despair. But it had a strange effect on my individual, for he sat down on a broken branch and burst into a paroxysm of invective. “Oh, Gawd!” he said. “I hate it, hate the sight of it! Day after day—all the same! All these blinkin’ trees and fields—all the same, nothing happenin’ ever.” I found it very difficult to meet this outburst. I could think of nothing to say, so I kept silent. After a time he got up, puffing feverishly at the cigarette, and walked round the little arbor. Every now and then he would stop and make a gesture towards the shrubs. I believe he was visualizing files and folios, ledgers, and typewriters. He made a movement of opening and shutting drawers. “You’ve been a bit run down, haven’t you?” I said at last, with a feeble attempt to bridge the gulf. He looked at me uncertainly, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. “I was unlucky,” he said sullenly. “I worked like a nigger for thirty years, but so do the others—lots of them—and they’re all right. Just sheer bad luck, if you know what I mean. I can do it now when they let me. That’s why I come here. Binders helps me a bit. He sends me people. And, do you know?” he whispered to me confidentially, “I’ve got the postman on my side. He delivers me letters here at twopence a time. Look! here is my mail-box!” He stooped down and lifted a large stone and produced a further pile of correspondence and circulars. “Would you like to buy some of these Trinidads? I could work it for you.” He looked at me anxiously, and I made some elaborate excuse for not seizing such a splendid opportunity. He sighed, and placed the papers back under the stone. “Have you ever dealt in big things?” he asked. “I’m afraid not—in your sense,” I answered, nurturing an instinctive sense of outraged superiority against this person who I felt despised me.