Sanders was taking breakfast on the verandah of his house. From where he sat he commanded across the flaming beauties of his garden a view of a broad, rolling, oily sea, a golden blaze of light under the hot sun. There was a steamer lying three miles out (only in five fathoms of water at that), and Sanders, through his glasses, recognised her as the Elder Dempster boat that brought the monthly mail. Since there were no letters on his table, and the boat had been "in" for two hours, he gathered that there was no mail for him, and was thankful, for he had outlived the sentimental period of life when letters were pleasant possibilities.
Having no letters, he expected no callers, and the spectacle of the Hon. George being carried in a hammock into his garden was astonishing.
The Hon. George carefully alighted, adjusted his white pith helmet, smoothed the creases from his immaculate ducks, and mounted the steps that led to the stoep.
"How do?" said the visitor. "My name is Tackle—George Tackle." He smiled, as though to say more was an insult to his hearer's intelligence.
Sanders bowed, a little ceremoniously for him. He felt that his visitor expected this.
"I'm out on a commission," the Hon. George went on. "As you've doubtless heard, my governor is the proprietor of the Courier and Echo, and so he thought I'd better go out and see the thing for myself. I've no doubt the whole thing is exaggerated——"
"Hold hard," said Sanders, a light dawning on him. "I gather that you are a sort of correspondent of a newspaper?"
"Exactly."
"That you have come to inquire into——"
"Treatment of natives, and all that," said the Hon. George easily.