Mr. Byrne, very pale and weak, stepped into the boat which carried the body of his humble friend.  For it was decided that Tom Corbin should rest far out in the bay of Biscay.  The officer took the tiller and, turning his head for the last look at the shore, saw on the grey hillside something moving, which he made out to be a little man in a yellow hat mounted on a mule—­that mule without which the fate of Tom Corbin would have remained mysterious for ever.

June, 1913.

BECAUSE OF THE DOLLARS

CHAPTER I

While we were hanging about near the water’s edge, as sailors idling ashore will do (it was in the open space before the Harbour Office of a great Eastern port), a man came towards us from the “front” of business houses, aiming obliquely at the landing steps.  He attracted my attention because in the movement of figures in white drill suits on the pavement from which he stepped, his costume, the usual tunic and trousers, being made of light grey flannel, made him noticeable.

I had time to observe him.  He was stout, but he was not grotesque.  His face was round and smooth, his complexion very fair.  On his nearer approach I saw a little moustache made all the fairer by a good many white hairs.  And he had, for a stout man, quite a good chin.  In passing us he exchanged nods with the friend I was with and smiled.

My friend was Hollis, the fellow who had so many adventures and had known so many queer people in that part of the (more or less) gorgeous East in the days of his youth.  He said:  “That’s a good man.  I don’t mean good in the sense of smart or skilful in his trade.  I mean a really good man.”

I turned round at once to look at the phenomenon.  The “really good man” had a very broad back.  I saw him signal a sampan to come alongside, get into it, and go off in the direction of a cluster of local steamers anchored close inshore.

I said:  “He’s a seaman, isn’t he?”

“Yes.  Commands that biggish dark-green steamer:  ’Sissie—­ Glasgow.’  He has never commanded anything else but the ’Sissie—­ Glasgow,’ only it wasn’t always the same Sissie.  The first he had was about half the length of this one, and we used to tell poor Davidson that she was a size too small for him.  Even at that time Davidson had bulk.  We warned him he would get callosities on his shoulders and elbows because of the tight fit of his command.  And Davidson could well afford the smiles he gave us for our chaff.  He made lots of money in her.  She belonged to a portly Chinaman resembling a mandarin in a picture-book, with goggles and thin drooping moustaches, and as dignified as only a Celestial knows how to be.