look at the thing as it is,’ says I.  ’Damn rocks and hurricanes.  Look at it as it is.  There’s guano there Queensland sugar-planters would fight for—­fight for on the quay, I tell you.’ . . .  What can you do with a fool? . . .  ’That’s one of your little jokes, Chester,’ he says. . . .  Joke!  I could have wept.  Ask Captain Robinson here. . . .  And there was another shipowning fellow—­a fat chap in a white waistcoat in Wellington, who seemed to think I was up to some swindle or other.  ’I don’t know what sort of fool you’re looking for,’ he says, ‘but I am busy just now.  Good morning.’  I longed to take him in my two hands and smash him through the window of his own office.  But I didn’t.  I was as mild as a curate.  ‘Think of it,’ says I. ‘Do think it over.  I’ll call to-morrow.’  He grunted something about being ‘out all day.’  On the stairs I felt ready to beat my head against the wall from vexation.  Captain Robinson here can tell you.  It was awful to think of all that lovely stuff lying waste under the sun—­stuff that would send the sugar-cane shooting sky-high.  The making of Queensland!  The making of Queensland!  And in Brisbane, where I went to have a last try, they gave me the name of a lunatic.  Idiots!  The only sensible man I came across was the cabman who drove me about.  A broken-down swell he was, I fancy.  Hey!  Captain Robinson?  You remember I told you about my cabby in Brisbane—­don’t you?  The chap had a wonderful eye for things.  He saw it all in a jiffy.  It was a real pleasure to talk with him.  One evening after a devil of a day amongst shipowners I felt so bad that, says I, ’I must get drunk.  Come along; I must get drunk, or I’ll go mad.’  ‘I am your man,’ he says; ‘go ahead.’  I don’t know what I would have done without him.  Hey!  Captain Robinson.”

’He poked the ribs of his partner.  “He! he! he!” laughed the Ancient, looked aimlessly down the street, then peered at me doubtfully with sad, dim pupils. . . .  “He! he! he!” . . .  He leaned heavier on the umbrella, and dropped his gaze on the ground.  I needn’t tell you I had tried to get away several times, but Chester had foiled every attempt by simply catching hold of my coat.  “One minute.  I’ve a notion.”  “What’s your infernal notion?” I exploded at last.  “If you think I am going in with you . . .”  “No, no, my boy.  Too late, if you wanted ever so much.  We’ve got a steamer.”  “You’ve got the ghost of a steamer,” I said.  “Good enough for a start—­there’s no superior nonsense about us.  Is there, Captain Robinson?” “No! no! no!” croaked the old man without lifting his eyes, and the senile tremble of his head became almost fierce with determination.  “I understand you know that young chap,” said Chester, with a nod at the street from which Jim had disappeared long ago.  “He’s been having grub with you in the Malabar last night—­so I was told.”