He was in his shirt-sleeves, and his words were in the usual course of business, but they had a human note. It was commercial amenity, but I had been a stranger to amenity in that connection. I do verily believe (from the direction of his heavy glance towards a certain shelf) that he was going to suggest the purchase of Clarkson’s Nerve Tonic, which he kept in stock, when I said impulsively: “I am rather in trouble with my loading.” Wide awake under his sleepy, broad mask with glued lips, he understood at once, had a movement of the head so appreciative that I relieved my exasperation by exclaiming: “Surely there must be eleven hundred quarter-bags to be found in the colony. It’s only a matter of looking for them.” Again that slight movement of the big head, and in the noise and activity of the store that tranquil murmur: “To be sure. But then people likely to have a reserve of quarter-bags wouldn’t want to sell. They’d need that size themselves.” “That’s exactly what my consignees are telling me. Impossible to buy. Bosh! They don’t want to. It suits them to have the ship hung up. But if I were to discover the lot they would have to—Look here, Jacobus! You are the man to have such a thing up your sleeve.” He protested with a ponderous swing of his big head. I stood before him helplessly, being looked at by those heavy eyes with a veiled expression as of a man after some soul-shaking crisis. Then, suddenly: “It’s impossible to talk quietly here,” he whispered. “I am very busy. But if you could go and wait for me in my house. It’s less than ten minutes’ walk. Oh, yes, you don’t know the way.” He called for his coat and offered to take me there himself. He would have to return to the store at once for an hour or so to finish his business, and then he would be at liberty to talk over with me that matter of quarter-bags. This programme was breathed out at me through slightly parted, still lips; his heavy, motionless glance rested upon me, placid as ever, the glance of a tired man—but I felt that it was searching, too. I could not imagine what he was looking for in me and kept silent, wondering. “I am asking you to wait for me in my house till I am at liberty to talk this matter over. You will?” “Why, of course!” I cried. “But I cannot promise—” “I dare say not,” I said. “I don’t expect a promise.” “I mean I can’t even promise to try the move I’ve in my mind. One must see first . . . h’m!” “All right. I’ll take the chance. I’ll wait for you as long as you like. What else have I to do in this infernal hole of a port!”