I walked in the sunshine, disregarding it, and in the shade of the big trees on the esplanade without enjoying it.  The heat of the tropical East descended through the leafy boughs, enveloping my thinly-clad body, clinging to my rebellious discontent, as if to rob it of its freedom.

The Officers’ Home was a large bungalow with a wide verandah and a curiously suburban-looking little garden of bushes and a few trees between it and the street.  That institution partook somewhat of the character of a residential club, but with a slightly Governmental flavour about it, because it was administered by the Harbour Office.  Its manager was officially styled Chief Steward.  He was an unhappy, wizened little man, who if put into a jockey’s rig would have looked the part to perfection.  But it was obvious that at some time or other in his life, in some capacity or other, he had been connected with the sea.  Possibly in the comprehensive capacity of a failure.

I should have thought his employment a very easy one, but he used to affirm for some reason or other that his job would be the death of him some day.  It was rather mysterious.  Perhaps everything naturally was too much trouble for him.  He certainly seemed to hate having people in the house.

On entering it I thought he must be feeling pleased.  It was as still as a tomb.  I could see no one in the living rooms; and the verandah, too, was empty, except for a man at the far end dozing prone in a long chair.  At the noise of my footsteps he opened one horribly fish-like eye.  He was a stranger to me.  I retreated from there, and crossing the dining room—­a very bare apartment with a motionless punkah hanging over the centre table—­I knocked at a door labelled in black letters:  “Chief Steward.”

The answer to my knock being a vexed and doleful plaint:  “Oh, dear!  Oh, dear!  What is it now?” I went in at once.

It was a strange room to find in the tropics.  Twilight and stuffiness reigned in there.  The fellow had hung enormously ample, dusty, cheap lace curtains over his windows, which were shut.  Piles of cardboard boxes, such as milliners and dressmakers use in Europe, cumbered the corners; and by some means he had procured for himself the sort of furniture that might have come out of a respectable parlour in the East End of London—­a horsehair sofa, arm-chairs of the same.  I glimpsed grimy antimacassars scattered over that horrid upholstery, which was awe-inspiring, insomuch that one could not guess what mysterious accident, need, or fancy had collected it there.  Its owner had taken off his tunic, and in white trousers and a thin, short-sleeved singlet prowled behind the chair-backs nursing his meagre elbows.

An exclamation of dismay escaped him when he heard that I had come for a stay; but he could not deny that there were plenty of vacant rooms.

“Very well.  Can you give me the one I had before?”

He emitted a faint moan from behind a pile of cardboard boxes on the table, which might have contained gloves or handkerchies or neckties.  I wonder what the fellow did keep in them?  There was a smell of decaying coral, or Oriental dust of zoological speciments in that den of his.  I could only see the top of his head and his unhappy eyes levelled at me over the barrier.