A Personal Problem
By H. Bedford-Jones
“All the island’s up at the commissioner’s to-night—he always gets a bale of ice up from Auckland on steamer day. You were surprised to find me here, eh?”
“So-so.” The fat man wiped his face and poured another drink. “You’re a damned ironic brute, Cranshaw! How was I to know that the John Smith, our Raratonga agent, was yourself? You have nerve. I always said you had nerve.”
The long, lean man looked across the table, inspecting his guest curiously. He had looked forward to the coming of the firm’s junior partner, but Hobson did not know it.
His thin lips crisped ironically as he squirted soda into his glass.
“Well, what are you going to do about it? Come, Hobson, let’s not mince words. You had me driven out of Auckland; you took over my stock in the company; you married Agnes, and you’ve grown fat. I fancy you’re punished enough—you needn’t look at me like that, man! Avarua is good enough for me.”
Hobson was indubitably nervous. He had shaven before coming ashore, but his fat jowl was dusky again. He perspired freely, and as he mopped his face he shot uneasy glances at the other man from deep-set black eyes.
An overlarge diamond flashed on his fat hand, and another glittered in his tie.