with some success, but which, with capital, capital to the tune of
thousands to be spent with both hands on advertising, could be
turned into a great thing--infinitely better--paying than a gold-
mine. Cloete became excited at the possibilities of that sort of
business, in which he was an expert. I understood that George's
partner was all on fire from the contact with this unique
opportunity.

"So he goes in every day into George's room about eleven, and sings
that tune till George gnashes his teeth with rage. Do shut up.
What's the good? No money. Hardly any to go on with, let alone
pouring thousands into advertising. Never dare propose to his
brother Harry to sell the ship. Couldn't think of it. Worry him
to death. It would be like the end of the world coming. And
certainly not for a business of that kind! . . . Do you think it
would be a swindle? asks Cloete, twitching his mouth. . . George
owns up: No-would be no better than a squeamish ass if he thought
that, after all these years in business.

"Cloete looks at him hard--Never thought of SELLING the ship.
Expected the blamed old thing wouldn't fetch half her insured value
by this time. Then George flies out at him. What's the meaning,
then, of these silly jeers at ship-owning for the last three weeks?
Had enough of them, anyhow.

"Angry at having his mouth made to water, see. Cloete don't get
excited. . . I am no squeamish ass, either, says he, very slowly.
'Tisn't selling your old Sagamore wants. The blamed thing wants
tomahawking (seems the name Sagamore means an Indian chief or
something. The figure-head was a half-naked savage with a feather