A black mudhole blocked the lane.  A mound of garbage crowned with the dead body of a dog arrested us not.  An empty Australian beef tin bounded cheerily before the toe of my boot.  Suddenly we clambered through a gap in a prickly fence. . . .

It was a very clean native compound:  and the big native woman, with bare brown legs as thick as bedposts, pursuing on all fours a silver dollar that came rolling out from somewhere, was Mrs. Johnson herself.  “Your man’s at home,” said the ex-sergeant, and stepped aside in complete and marked indifference to anything that might follow.  Johnson—­at home—­stood with his back to a native house built on posts and with its walls made of mats.  In his left hand he held a banana.  Out of the right he dealt another dollar into space.  The woman captured this one on the wing, and there and then plumped down on the ground to look at us with greater comfort.

My man was sallow of face, grizzled, unshaven, muddy on elbows and back; where the seams of his serge coat yawned you could see his white nakedness.  The vestiges of a paper collar encircled his neck.  He looked at us with a grave, swaying surprise.  “Where do you come from?” he asked.  My heart sank.  How could I have been stupid enough to waste energy and time for this?

But having already gone so far I approached a little nearer and declared the purpose of my visit.  He would have to come at once with me, sleep on board my ship, and to-morrow, with the first of the ebb, he would give me his assistance in getting my ship down to the sea, without steam.  A six-hundred-ton barque, drawing nine feet aft.  I proposed to give him eighteen dollars for his local knowledge; and all the time I was speaking he kept on considering attentively the various aspects of the banana, holding first one side up to his eye, then the other.

“You’ve forgotten to apologise,” he said at last with extreme precision.  “Not being a gentleman yourself, you don’t know apparently when you intrude upon a gentleman.  I am one.  I wish you to understand that when I am in funds I don’t work, and now . . .”

I would have pronounced him perfectly sober hadn’t he paused in great concern to try and brush a hole off the knee of his trousers.

“I have money—­and friends.  Every gentleman has.  Perhaps you would like to know my friend?  His name is Falk.  You could borrow some money.  Try to remember.  F-A-L-K, Falk.”  Abruptly his tone changed.  “A noble heart,” he said muzzily.

“Has Falk been giving you some money?” I asked, appalled by the detailed finish of the dark plot.

“Lent me, my good man, not given me.  Lent,” he corrected suavely.  “Met me taking the air last evening, and being as usual anxious to oblige—­Hadn’t you better go to the devil out of my compound?”