In the morning, Marston occupied himself with some old books in Wyndhams' office at the top of a big stone building. The office was comfortably furnished and there was a good picture of an old-fashioned sailing ship on the wall; the big single-top sails indicated when she was built. At the end of the street the window commanded, the masts and funnels of channel steamers rose above a warehouse where Wyndhams' barks and brigs had loaded goods they bartered for slaves. Marston glanced at the modern iron masts and smiled when he looked up, for the book he studied had nothing to do with business. It was the log of the slaver _Providence_ that Wyndham had talked about, and it related how they towed her with the boats when the negroes died in the suffocating hold. There was something about a sacrifice that did not bring the needed wind and its cost was charged against the freight. They were hard men, touched by strange superstitions, who towed the _Providence_, but their brutality was businesslike. Marston found an entry for the negroes used up at the oars, with their value at Jamaica properly noted. After a time, he shut the log-book. He had read enough and resolved there would be a break in some of Wyndhams' traditions now he was a partner in the house. He had noted things he did not like, and Harry would support his new plans when he came home. By and by he heard steps in the clerks' office and a broker was announced. The latter came in and put a small brown jar on the table. "I told your people we wanted some hard oil and they sent us samples," he said. "If the bulk's quite up to specimen, I think it ought to meet the bill. We must have prime quality for the particular job." Marston picked up the jar, which held a quantity of thick yellow grease. It was palm oil and its strong but rather pleasant smell awoke vivid memories. He saw the whitewashed factory shine beside the muddy river and a gang of naked negroes filling big barrels in a compound tunneled by land-crabs' holes. The compound glowed with light against a background of forest wrapped in unchanging gloom, from which the palm oil came. For all that, the oil was a well-known article of commerce. There was nothing mysterious about its production and Marston would have been satisfied had Wyndhams' confined its trade to stuff like this. Then he saw the broker was waiting. "Don't samples generally stand for the bulk?" he asked. The broker looked at him rather sharply and smiled. "It depends upon the people with whom you deal and the skill of their warehouseman. A man who knows his job can draw samples that will pass a good-middling lot as prime, and this without the buyer's being able to claim that they're not fairly representative. But of course, you know----" "I don't know. You see, I'm a beginner," Marston replied, and examined a ticket stuck in the oil. "Well, I saw this lot barreled in Africa. The quality is _not_ prime."