Complete Works

mind,” I said.  “We generally say: some years passed.  That’s soon done.”
    He eyed me for a while silently in an unseeing way, as if engrossed in the thought of the years so easily dealt with; his own years, too, they were, the years before and the years (not so many) after Cloete came upon the scene.  When he began to speak again, I discerned his intention to point out to me, in his obscure and graphic manner, the influence on George Dunbar of long association with Cloete’s easy moral standards, unscrupulously persuasive gift of humour (funny fellow), and adventurously reckless disposition.  He desired me anxiously to elaborate this view, and I assured him it was quite within my powers.  He wished me also to understand that George’s business had its ups and downs (the other brother was meantime sailing to and fro serenely); that he got into low water at times, which worried him rather, because he had married a young wife with expensive tastes.  He was having a pretty anxious time of it generally; and just then Cloete ran up in the city somewhere against a man working a patent medicine (the fellow’s old trade) with some success, but which, with capital, capital to the tune of thousands to be spent with both hands on advertising, could be turned into a great thing — infinitely better-paying than a gold-mine.  Cloete became excited at the possibilities of that sort of business, in which he was an expert.  I understood that George’s partner was all on fire from the contact with this unique opportunity.
    “So he goes in every day into George’s room about eleven, and sings that tune till George gnashes his teeth with rage.  Do shut up.  What’s the good?  No money.  Hardly any to go on with, let alone pouring thousands into advertising.  Never dare propose to his brother Harry to sell the ship.  Couldn’t think of it.  Worry him to death.  It would be like the end of the world coming.  And certainly not for a business of that kind! . . . Do you think it would be a swindle? asks Cloete, twitching his mouth. . . George owns up: No — would be no better than a squeamish ass if he thought that, after all these years in business.
    “Cloete looks at him hard — Never thought of selling the ship.  Expected the blamed old thing wouldn’t fetch half her insured value by this time.  Then George flies out at him.  What’s the meaning, then, of these silly jeers at ship-owning for the last three weeks?  Had enough of them, anyhow.
    “Angry at having his mouth made to water, see.  Cloete don’t get excited. . . I am no squeamish ass, either, says he, very slowly.  ‘Tisn’t selling your old Sagamore wants.  The blamed thing wants tomahawking (seems the name Sagamore means an Indian chief or something.  The figure-head was a half-naked savage with a feather over one ear and a hatchet in his belt).  Tomahawking, says he.
    “What do you mean? asks George. . . Wrecking — it could be managed with perfect safety, goes on Cloete — your brother would then put in his share of insurance money.  Needn’t tell him exactly what for.  He thinks you’re the smartest business man that ever lived.  Make his fortune, too. . . George grips the desk with both hands in his rage. . . You think my brother’s a man to cast away his ship on purpose.  I wouldn’t even dare think of such a thing in the same room with him — the finest fellow that ever lived. . . Don’t make such noise; they’ll hear you outside, says Cloete; and he tells him that his brother is the salted pattern of all virtues, but all that’s necessary is to induce him to stay ashore for a voyage — for a holiday — take a rest — why not? . . . In fact, I have in view somebody up to that sort of game — Cloete whispers.
    “George nearly chokes. . . So you think I am of that sort — you think me capable — What do you take me for? . . . He almost loses his head, while Cloete keeps cool, only gets white about the gills. . . I take you for a man who will be most cursedly hard up before long. . . He goes to the door and sends away the clerks — there were only two — to take their lunch hour.  Comes back . . . What are you indignant about?  Do I want you to rob the widow and orphan?  Why, man!  Lloyd’s a corporation, it hasn’t got a body to starve.  There’s forty or more of them perhaps who underwrote the lines on that silly ship of yours.  Not one human being would go hungry or cold for it.  They