The turning of his head slightly toward me at this point was like a sign of strong feeling in any other man.

“You’ll mind that this was long before Cloete came into it at all,” he muttered, warningly.

“Yes.  I will 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.