off before he began one of his little tales. Funny fellow, Cloete.
C-l-o-e-t-e--Cloete."

"What was he--a Dutchman?" I asked, not seeing in the least what
all this had to do with the Westport boatmen and the Westport
summer visitors and this extraordinary old fellow's irritable view
of them as liars and fools. "Devil knows," he grunted, his eyes on
the wall as if not to miss a single movement of a cinematograph
picture. "Spoke nothing but English, anyway. First I saw him--
comes off a ship in dock from the States--passenger. Asks me for a
small hotel near by. Wanted to be quiet and have a look round for
a few days. I took him to a place--friend of mine. . . Next time--
in the City--Hallo! You're very obliging--have a drink. Talks
plenty about himself. Been years in the States. All sorts of
business all over the place. With some patent medicine people,
too. Travels. Writes advertisements and all that. Tells me funny
stories. Tall, loose-limbed fellow. Black hair up on end, like a
brush; long face, long legs, long arms, twinkle in his specs,
jocular way of speaking--in a low voice. . . See that?"

I nodded, but he was not looking at me.

"Never laughed so much in my life. The beggar--would make you
laugh telling you how he skinned his own father. He was up to
that, too. A man who's been in the patent-medicine trade will be
up to anything from pitch-and-toss to wilful murder. And that's a
bit of hard truth for you. Don't mind what they do--think they can
carry off anything and talk themselves out of anything--all the
world's a fool to them. Business man, too, Cloete. Came over with
a few hundred pounds. Looking for something to do--in a quiet way.