"They give me the colic," he says, and Irish put his head up the
companion way, and says: "The wather was too hot," he says and blew
his fingers, and Sadler gave a groan.

"There's my luck!" he says. "I meant to tell Irish to take the boil
off and forgot it. Now their skins'll peel. You go away, Tommy. You
go ashore. You can't do me no good."

He looked sheepish and troubled. When I pulled away, he sat staring
down, with his back turned, his boots dangling over the water, and
his shoulders bent. He certainly felt bad.

The Superintendent of the Transport Company was named Dorcas, a
bustling, heavy-bearded man that you couldn't hold still and that
talked fast and jerky like a piston rod.

I met him in the Plaza next morning going into the City Hall.

"Come on," he says. "We'll fix it. What? Jefe was stuck. Come to me.
Now then. Got an idea. Suit him first-rate. You see. Struck me this
morning," says Dorcas. "Suit everybody."

We came to the Mayor's office, and found Sadler, sitting alone by
the window and looking moodily down on the Plaza, where the chain
gang from the City Jail was pretending to mend the pavement, but
mostly loafing and quarrelling.

"Got him!" said Dorcas joyfully. "Thumped up the Jefe. First he
cussed, then he calmed. That's his way. Be up pretty soon. Hold on!
Wait for the Jefe."