California, Captain Tom, I just had to come and shake hands. I reckon
you ain't forgot Tasman, eh?--nor the scrap at Thursday Island.
Say--old Tasman was killed by his niggers only last year up German New
Guinea way. Remember his cook-boy?--Ngani-Ngani? He was the ringleader.
Tasman swore by him, but Ngani-Ngani hatcheted him just the same."

"Shake hands with Captain Carlsen, Fred," was Tom's introduction of his
brother to another visitor. "He pulled me out of a tight place on the
West Coast once. I'd have cashed in, Carlsen, if you hadn't happened
along."

Captain Carlsen was a giant hulk of a man, with gimlet eyes of palest
blue, a slash-scarred mouth that a blazing red beard could not quite
hide, and a grip in his hand that made Frederick squirm.

A few minutes later, Tom had his brother aside.

"Say, Fred, do you think it will bother to advance me a thousand?"

"Of course," Frederick answered splendidly. "You know half of that I
have is yours, Tom."

And when Captain Carlsen departed, Frederick was morally certain that
the thousand dollars departed with him.

Small wonder Tom had made a failure of life--and come home to die.
Frederick sat at his own orderly desk taking stock of the difference
between him and his brother. Yes, and if it hadn't been for him, there
would have been no home for Tom to die in.