Once on shore Mr. Bransome, for that was the new man’s name, rapidly recovered his presence of mind and manner, and, by way of covering his past confusion, remarked that he supposed the surf was seldom so bad as it then was.  I replied in an offhand way, meaning to make fun of him, that what he had passed through was nothing, and appealed to the patrao to confirm what I had said.  That negro, seeing the joke, grinned all over his black face; and Mr. Bransome, perceiving that he was being laughed at, snatched a good-sized stick from a native standing near, and struck the patrao repeatedly over the back.

In vain Sooka, for that was the patrao’s name, protested, and demanded to know what wrong thing he had done.  The agent was furious, and showered his blows upon the black.  Equally in vain I shouted that Sooka had done well by us, and that he, Mr. Bransome, was making an enemy of a man who would have him now and then in his power.  At length Sooka took to his heels, and sure enough, when he had got a little way off, he began to threaten vengeance for what he had received.  I sympathised with him, for I knew what a loss to his dignity it was to be beaten without cause before his fellows, and I feared that Mr. Bransome would indeed be sorry, sooner or later, for what he had done.

I now suggested to him, by way of diverting his thoughts from poor Sooka, that standing on the beach in wet clothes was the very way to catch the coast-fever straight off, and he instantly suffered himself to be carried up the factory.  There Jackson received him in a sort of “who on earth are you?” manner; and Mr. Bransome, clearing his throat, announced himself and his authority, adding that he intended to make the factory a point of departure to all the others on the coast; then, very abruptly, he requested Jackson to prepare quarters for him without delay.

The change that came over Jackson’s face as he learned the quality of the stranger and his requests was great.  The old salt, who had been king of his house and of the Point for so long a time, had evidently never even thought of the probability of such an intrusion as was now presented to him, and he was amazed at what he considered to be the unwarrantable assurance of the stranger.  However, he recovered himself smartly, and asked the new man if he had any written credentials.

“Certainly,” replied he, pulling out a document all wet with salt water.  “Here is a letter from Messrs. Flint Brothers, of which, no doubt, you will have a copy in your mail-bag.”

Jackson took the letter and opened it, and seemed to read it slowly to himself.  All at once he started, looked at the new agent, advanced a step or two toward him, muttering, “Bransome, Bransome,” then stopped and asked him in a strange constrained voice, “Is your name Bransome?”

“Yes,” replied the latter, astonished at the old man’s question.

“I knew a Bransome once,” said Jackson, steadily, “and he was a scoundrel.”