Yet, withal, he was a genial man, or the lines about his face lied cruelly.
Nearing the long yellow beach where the waters were engaged everlastingly in a futile attempt to create a permanent sea-wall, his references to home ceased, and he confined himself to apprehensive "huh's!"
"Huh!" he grunted, as the boat was kicked into the air on the heels of a playful roller. "Huh!" he said, as the big surfer dropped from the ninth floor to a watery basement. "Huh—oh!" he exclaimed—but there was no accident; the boat was gripped by wading landsmen and slid to safety.
Big Ben Hold rolled ashore and stood on the firm beach looking resentfully across the two miles of water which separated him from the ship.
"Orter build a dock," he grumbled.
He watched, with a jealous eye, the unloading of his kit, checking the packing cases with a piece of green chalk he dug up from his waistcoat pocket and found at least one package missing. The only important one, too. Is this it? No! Is that it? No! Is that—ah, yes, that was it.
He was sitting on it.
"Suh," said a polite Krooman, "you lib for dem k'miss'ner?"
"Hey?"
"Dem Sandi—you find um?"