“But next day he weakens and says to Cloete . . . Perhaps it would be best to sell. Couldn’t you talk to my brother? and Cloete explains to him over again for the twentieth time why selling wouldn’t do, anyhow. No! The _Sagamore_ must be tomahawked—as he would call it; to spare George’s feelings, maybe. But every time he says the word, George shudders. . . I’ve got a man at hand competent for the job who will do the trick for five hundred, and only too pleased at the chance, says Cloete. . . George shuts his eyes tight at that sort of talk—but at the same time he thinks: Humbug! There can be no such man. And yet if there was such a man it would be safe enough—perhaps. “And Cloete always funny about it. He couldn’t talk about anything without it seeming there was a great joke in it somewhere. . . Now, says he, I know you are a moral citizen, George. Morality is mostly funk, and I think you’re the funkiest man I ever came across in my travels. Why, you are afraid to speak to your brother. Afraid to open your mouth to him with a fortune for us all in sight. . . George flares up at this: no, he ain’t afraid; he will speak; bangs fist on the desk. And Cloete pats him on the back. . . We’ll be made men presently, he says. “But the first time George attempts to speak to Captain Harry his heart slides down into his boots. Captain Harry only laughs at the notion of staying ashore. He wants no holiday, not he. But Jane thinks of remaining in England this trip. Go about a bit and see some of her people. Jane was the Captain’s wife; round-faced, pleasant lady. George gives up that time; but Cloete won’t let him rest. So he tries again; and the Captain frowns. He frowns because he’s puzzled. He can’t make it out. He has no notion of living away from his _Sagamore_. . . “Ah!” I cried. “Now I understand.” “No, you don’t,” he growled, his black, contemptuous stare turning on me crushingly. “I beg your pardon,” I murmured.