"Willoughby--Tom Willoughby."
"H'm! Not Bob Willoughby's son, by any chance?"
"My father's name was Robert, sir."
"Takes after his mother, I suppose," the old man murmured to himself, but audibly. "Hasn't got Bob's nose. I knew him," he went on aloud. "Saw in The Times he was gone: sorry, my lad. Haven't seen him since '98, when I was in Uganda. Haven't been out since; wanted to run round once more before I'm laid on the shelf. Going to Rhodesia, I presume?"
"No: only as far as Bismarckburg: my father was interested in some land on the edge of the Plateau."
"German land, begad!"
"Well, you see he was partner with a German: went equal shares with him in a coffee plantation seven or eight years ago."
"H'm! Why didn't he stick to mines?" said the old gentleman in one of his audible asides. "And you step into his shoes, I suppose?"
"Not exactly, sir. He left his property to my brother and me jointly. We decided that Bob--he's twenty-four--had better stick to the commission business in London, and I should come out and learn planting, or at any rate see if it's worth while going on; the plantation has never paid, and it's lucky for us we don't depend on it."
"Never paid in eight years? It's time it did. What's your German partner about? I'm an old hand; my name's Barkworth, and I was a friend of your father. My advice is, if your coffee hasn't paid in eight years, cut your losses and try cotton."