it difficult to keep a straight line. Just before I lost him I fancied he staggered a bit.
‘“Man overboard,” said a deep voice behind me. Turning round, I saw a fellow I knew slightly, a West Australian; Chester was his name. He, too, had been looking after Jim. He was a man with an immense girth of chest, a rugged, clean-shaved face of mahogany colour, and two blunt tufts of iron-grey, thick, wiry hairs on his upper lip. He had been pearler, wrecker, trader, whaler too, I believe; in his own words — anything and everything a man may be at sea, but a pirate. The Pacific, north and south, was his proper hunting-ground; but he had wandered so far afield looking for a cheap steamer to buy. Lately he had discovered — so he said — a guano island somewhere, but its approaches were dangerous, and the anchorage, such as it was, could not be considered safe, to say the least of it. “As good as a gold-mine,” he would exclaim. “Right bang in the middle of the Walpole Reefs, and if it’s true enough that you can get no holding-ground anywhere in less than forty fathom, then what of that? There are the hurricanes, too. But it’s a first-rate thing. As good as a gold-mine — better! Yet there’s not a fool of them that will see it. I can’t get a skipper or a shipowner to go near the place. So I made up my mind to cart the blessed stuff myself.” . . . This was what he required a steamer for, and I knew he was just then negotiating enthusiastically with a Parsee firm for an old, brig-rigged, sea-anachronism of ninety horse-power. We had met and spoken together several times. He looked knowingly after Jim. “Takes it to heart?” he asked scornfully. “Very much,” I said. “Then he’s no good,” he opined. “What’s all the to-do about? A bit of ass’s skin. That never yet made a man. You must see things exactly as they are — if you don’t, you may just as well give in at once. You will never do anything in this world. Look at me. I made it a practice never to take anything to heart.” “Yes,” I said, “you see things as they are.” “I wish I could see my partner coming along, that’s what I wish to see,” he said. “Know my partner? Old Robinson. Yes; the Robinson. Don’t you know? The notorious Robinson. The man who smuggled more opium and bagged more seals in his time than any loose Johnny now alive. They say he used to board the sealing-schooners up Alaska way when the fog was so thick that the Lord God, He alone, could tell one man from another. Holy-Terror Robinson. That’s the man. He is with me in that guano thing. The best chance he ever came across in his life.” He put his lips to my ear. “Cannibal? — well, they used to give him the name years and years ago. You remember the story? A shipwreck on the west side of Stewart Island; that’s right; seven of them got ashore, and it seems they did not get on very well together. Some men are too cantankerous for anything — don’t know how to make the best of a bad job — don’t see things as they are — as they are, my boy! And then what’s the consequence? Obvious! Trouble, trouble; as likely as not a knock on the head; and serve ‘em right too. That sort is the most useful when it’s dead. The story goes that a boat of Her Majesty’s ship Wolverine found him kneeling on the kelp, naked as the day he was born, and chanting some psalm-tune or other; light snow was falling at the time. He waited till the boat was an oar’s length from the shore, and then up and away. They chased him for an hour up and down the boulders, till a marine flung a stone that took him behind the ear providentially and knocked him senseless. Alone? Of course. But that’s like that tale of sealing-schooners; the Lord God knows the right and the wrong of that story. The cutter did not investigate much. They wrapped him in a boat-cloak and took him off as quick as they could, with a dark night coming on, the weather threatening, and the ship firing recall guns every five minutes. Three weeks afterwards he was as well as ever. He didn’t allow any fuss that was made on shore to upset him; he just shut his lips tight, and let people screech. It was bad enough to have lost his ship, and all he was worth besides, without paying attention to the hard names they called him. That’s the man for me.” He lifted his arm for a signal to some one down the street. “He’s got a little money, so I had to let him into my thing. Had to! It would have been sinful to throw away such a find, and I was cleaned out myself. It cut me to the quick, but I could see the matter just as it was, and if I must share — thinks I— with any man, then give me Robinson. I left him at breakfast in the hotel to come to court, because I’ve an idea. . . . Ah! Good morning, Captain Robinson. . . . Friend of mine, Captain Robinson.”
‘An emaciated patriarch in a suit of white drill, a solah topi with a green-lined rim on a head trembling with age, joined us after crossing the street in a trotting shuffle, and stood propped with both hands on the handle of an umbrella. A white beard with amber streaks hung lumpily down to his waist. He blinked his creased eyelids at me in a bewildered way. “How do you do? how do you do?” he piped amiably, and tottered. “A little deaf,” said Chester aside. “Did you drag him over six thousand miles to get a cheap steamer?” I asked. “I would have taken him twice round the world as soon as look at him,” said Chester with immense energy. “The steamer will be the making of us, my lad. Is it my fault that every skipper and shipowner in the whole of blessed Australasia turns out a blamed fool? Once I talked for three hours to a man in Auckland. ‘Send a ship,’ I said, ‘send a ship. I’ll give you half of the first cargo for yourself, free gratis for nothing — just to make a good start.’ Says he, ‘I wouldn’t do it if there was no other place on earth to send a ship to.’ Perfect ass, of course. Rocks, currents, no anchorage, sheer cliff to lay to, no insurance company would take the risk, didn’t see how he could get loaded under three years. Ass! I nearly went on my knees to him. ‘But look at the thing as it is,’ says I. ‘Damn rocks and hurricanes. Look at it as it is. There’s guano there Queensland sugar-planters would fight for — fight for on the quay, I tell you.’ . . . What can you do with a fool? . . . ‘That’s one of your little jokes, Chester,’ he says. . . . Joke! I could have wept. Ask Captain Robinson here. . . . And there was another shipowning fellow — a fat chap in a white waistcoat in Wellington, who seemed to think I was up to some swindle or other. ‘I don’t know what sort of fool you’re looking for,’ he says, ‘but I am busy just now. Good morning.’ I longed to take him in my two hands and smash him through the window of his own office. But I didn’t. I was as mild as a curate. ‘Think of it,’ says I. ‘Do think it over. I’ll call to-morrow.’ He grunted something about being ‘out all day.’ On the stairs I felt ready to beat my head against the wall from vexation. Captain Robinson here can tell you. It was awful to think of all that lovely stuff lying waste under the sun — stuff that would send the sugar-cane shooting sky-high. The making of Queensland! The making of Queensland! And in Brisbane, where I went to have a last try, they gave me the name of a lunatic. Idiots! The only sensible man I came across was the cabman who drove me about. A broken-down swell he was, I fancy. Hey! Captain Robinson? You remember I told you about my cabby in Brisbane — don’t you? The chap had a wonderful eye for things. He saw it all in a jiffy. It was a real pleasure to talk with him. One evening after a devil of a day amongst shipowners I felt so bad that, says I, ‘I must get drunk. Come along; I must get drunk, or I’ll go mad.’ ‘I am your man,’ he says; ‘go ahead.’ I don’t know what I would have done without him. Hey! Captain Robinson.”
‘He poked the ribs of his partner. “He! he! he!” laughed the Ancient, looked aimlessly down the street, then peered at me doubtfully with sad, dim pupils. . . . “He! he! he!” . . . He leaned heavier on the umbrella, and dropped his gaze on the ground. I needn’t tell you I had tried to get away several times, but Chester had foiled every attempt by simply catching hold of my coat. “One minute. I’ve a notion.” “What’s your infernal notion?” I exploded at last. “If you think I am going in with you. ..” “No, no, my boy. Too late, if you wanted ever so much. We’ve got a steamer.” “You’ve got the ghost of a steamer,” I said. “Good enough for a start — there’s no superior nonsense about us. Is there, Captain Robinson?” “No! no! no!” croaked the old man without lifting his eyes, and the senile tremble of his head became almost fierce with determination. “I understand you know that young chap,” said Chester, with a nod at the street from which Jim had disappeared long ago. “He’s been having grub with you in the Malabar last night — so I was told.”
‘I said that was true, and after remarking that he too liked to live well and in style, only that, for the present, he had to be saving of every penny — “none too many for the business! Isn’t that so, Captain Robinson?” — he squared his shoulders and stroked his dumpy moustache, while the