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Produced by: Roger Frank. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.
"All the island's up at the commissioner's to-night--he always gets a bale of ice up from Auckland on steamer day. You were surprised to find me here, eh?"
"So-so." The fat man wiped his face and poured another drink. "You're a damned ironic brute, Cranshaw! How was I to know that the John Smith, our Raratonga agent, was yourself? You have nerve. I always said you had nerve."
The long, lean man looked across the table, inspecting his guest curiously. He had looked forward to the coming of the firm's junior partner, but Hobson did not know it.
His thin lips crisped ironically as he squirted soda into his glass.
"Well, what are you going to do about it? Come, Hobson, let's not mince words. You had me driven out of Auckland; you took over my stock in the company; you married Agnes, and you've grown fat. I fancy you're punished enough--you needn't look at me like that, man! Avarua is good enough for me."
Hobson was indubitably nervous. He had shaven before coming ashore, but his fat jowl was dusky again. He perspired freely, and as he mopped his face he shot uneasy glances at the other man from deep-set black eyes.
An overlarge diamond flashed on his fat hand, and another glittered in his tie.
"You're a sly dog, Cranshaw, a sly dog," he muttered, then his voice took on vigor. "What do you mean, anyway? You needn't think that because your bally bungalow is out here at the edge of town you can threaten me. I won't stand for it. I'll discharge you--I'll show you up before the commissioner--"
"Hold on, man! Great Heavens, don't you see that I'm in your power?" Cranshaw leaned over the table, his face anxious, pleading.
But behind the anxiety in his gray eyes there was a hard coldness, quickly veiled.
"I'm not threatening you, Hobson--it's the other way around. I'm satisfied, here in Avarua; I'm the company's agent, no one knows who I used to be, I've a good salary. Come, don't bear malice! The old life is forgotten, so let the dead bury their dead. Don't be hard on me, old man! I know you didn't treat me square, but you married Agnes--I was beaten, and that's an end to it. Now I'm contented and prospering here. You won't give me away, will you? You won't discharge me, send me down into hell a second time?"
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