over one ear and a hatchet in his belt). Tomahawking, says he.

"What do you mean? asks George. . . Wrecking--it could be managed
with perfect safety, goes on Cloete--your brother would then put in
his share of insurance money. Needn't tell him exactly what for.
He thinks you're the smartest business man that ever lived. Make
his fortune, too. . . George grips the desk with both hands in his
rage. . . You think my brother's a man to cast away his ship on
purpose. I wouldn't even dare think of such a thing in the same
room with him--the finest fellow that ever lived. . . Don't make
such noise; they'll hear you outside, says Cloete; and he tells him
that his brother is the salted pattern of all virtues, but all
that's necessary is to induce him to stay ashore for a voyage--for
a holiday--take a rest--why not? . . . In fact, I have in view
somebody up to that sort of game--Cloete whispers.

"George nearly chokes. . . So you think I am of that sort--you
think ME capable--What do you take me for? . . . He almost loses
his head, while Cloete keeps cool, only gets white about the gills.
. . I take you for a man who will be most cursedly hard up before
long. . . He goes to the door and sends away the clerks--there were
only two--to take their lunch hour. Comes back . . . What are you
indignant about? Do I want you to rob the widow and orphan? Why,
man! Lloyd's a corporation, it hasn't got a body to starve.
There's forty or more of them perhaps who underwrote the lines on
that silly ship of yours. Not one human being would go hungry or
cold for it. They take every risk into consideration. Everything
I tell you. . . That sort of talk. H'm! George too upset to
speak--only gurgles and waves his arms; so sudden, you see. The
other, warming his back at the fire, goes on. Wood-pulp business