of all places in the world, no one knows. Well, he was mooning about
Delli, that highly pestilential place, possibly in search of some
undiscovered facts, when he came in the street upon Morrison, who, in
his way, was also an "enchanted" man. When you spoke to Morrison of
going home--he was from Dorsetshire--he shuddered. He said it was dark
and wet there; that it was like living with your head and shoulders in
a moist gunny-bag. That was only his exaggerated style of talking.
Morrison was "one of us." He was owner and master of the Capricorn,
trading brig, and was understood to be doing well with her, except for
the drawback of too much altruism. He was the dearly beloved friend of a
quantity of God-forsaken villages up dark creeks and obscure bays, where
he traded for produce. He would often sail, through awfully dangerous
channels up to some miserable settlement, only to find a very hungry
population clamorous for rice, and without so much "produce" between
them as would have filled Morrison's suitcase. Amid general rejoicings,
he would land the rice all the same, explain to the people that it was
an advance, that they were in debt to him now; would preach to them
energy and industry, and make an elaborate note in a pocket-diary which
he always carried; and this would be the end of that transaction.
I don't know if Morrison thought so, but the villagers had no doubt
whatever about it. Whenever a coast village sighted the brig it would
begin to beat all its gongs and hoist all its streamers, and all its
girls would put flowers in their hair and the crowd would line the river
bank, and Morrison would beam and glitter at all this excitement through
his single eyeglass with an air of intense gratification. He was tall
and lantern-jawed, and clean-shaven, and looked like a barrister who had
thrown his wig to the dogs.

We used to remonstrate with him: