“Never laughed so much in my life. The beggar—would make you laugh telling you how he skinned his own father. He was up to that, too. A man who’s been in the patent-medicine trade will be up to anything from pitch-and-toss to wilful murder. And that’s a bit of hard truth for you. Don’t mind what they do—think they can carry off anything and talk themselves out of anything—all the world’s a fool to them. Business man, too, Cloete. Came over with a few hundred pounds. Looking for something to do—in a quiet way. Nothing like the old country, after all, says he. . . And so we part—I with more drinks in me than I was used to. After a time, perhaps six months or so, I run up against him again in Mr. George Dunbar’s office. Yes, _that_ office. It wasn’t often that I . . . However, there was a bit of his cargo in a ship in dock that I wanted to ask Mr. George about. In comes Cloete out of the room at the back with some papers in his hand. Partner. You understand?” “Aha!” I said. “The few hundred pounds.” “And that tongue of his,” he growled. “Don’t forget that tongue. Some of his tales must have opened George Dunbar’s eyes a bit as to what business means.” “A plausible fellow,” I suggested. “H’m! You must have it in your own way—of course. Well. Partner. George Dunbar puts his top-hat on and tells me to wait a moment. . . George always looked as though he were making a few thousands a year—a city swell. . . Come along, old man! And he and Captain Harry go out together—some business with a solicitor round the corner. Captain Harry, when he was in England, used to turn up in his brother’s office regularly about twelve. Sat in a corner like a good boy, reading the paper and smoking his pipe. So they go out. . . Model brothers, says Cloete—two love-birds—I am looking after the tinned-fruit side of this cozy little show. . . Gives me that sort of talk. Then by-and-by: What sort of old thing is that _Sagamore_? Finest ship out—eh? I dare say all ships are fine to you. You live by them. I tell you what; I would just as soon put my money into an old stocking. Sooner!” * * * * * He drew a breath, and I noticed his hand, lying loosely on the table, close slowly into a fist. In that immovable man it was startling, ominous, like the famed nod of the Commander. “So, already at that time—note—already,” he growled. “But hold on,” I interrupted. “The _Sagamore_ belonged to Mundy and Rogers, I’ve been told.”