When he had gone, with such dignity as a large and perspiring man, who wears a frock-coat in the Tropics, can command, the Acting-Consul yawned again. “Queer old chap. Isn’t he in a paddy-whack!” Then he went to the door and called the Vice-Consul. “I say, Blackiston, come and drink the whisky-and-soda our heavy friend refused. Did he slam the door as he went out?”
Mr Joseph Gobbitt did not go to the English Club that night, partly because he was unwilling to run the risk of further shocks to his dignity, but chiefly because he thought it possible that some friends of Mr Commissioner Gumpertz might chance to call on him. The latter supposition proved to be correct. He had just finished dinner, and was waiting on the veranda of the hotel for his coffee, when the waiter announced two gentlemen, who introduced themselves as Mr William P. Hart and Senor de Vega, the latter being a mestizo. Mr Gobbitt received them graciously, scenting business, and it only needed two liqueurs to produce a definite proposition. Mr William P. Hart was not shy, whilst Senor de Vega backed him loyally in all he had to say. There was this splendid stretch of hemp-growing land on the north of the range of mountains, which Mr Gobbitt had doubtless noticed. Mr Commissioner Gumpertz had the selling of it, and the Commissioner’s price would be so much for himself—or rather for himself, Mr Hart, and Senor de Vega—and so much for the Government. There was no useless beating about the bush, a feature which Mr Gobbitt rather appreciated. It was, after all, a plain matter of business, and, as it was shorn of all pretence and shams, a business man could discuss it.
They came to terms, provisionally. Mr Gobbitt had made careful enquiries as to the value of really good hemp land in that part of the island, and he knew that, if he bought at the figure named, he would be making an amazingly good bargain. Unfortunately, however, he did not know good hemp land from bad—or, for that matter, from any other sort of land; and much though he respected the cleverness, the money-making genius, of Commissioner Gumpertz, he was not going to take that gentleman’s word for anything which involved financial risk to himself.
“I must inspect this land first, of course,” he said. “That is only a matter of common sense. I will find some reliable person who can give me an expert opinion on it, and then, if he reports favourably, I will come to terms with … with your Government.”
“And the Commissioner?” Mr Hart asked, with a leer.
The merchant bowed gravely. “And the Commissioner, of course. That is understood.”
“Can’t be done without him.” Mr Hart was inclined to frankness.
“It is quite unnecessary to tell me that.” Mr Gobbitt spoke severely. “I am accustomed to business.”
“There is one thing more.” Mr Hart laid a hand which was none too clean on his host’s knee. “The Commissioner wants a deposit, so that he has something to show the Government, in case another buyer happens along. He wants six thousand dollars, gold, down; to be refunded if you do not wish to complete the purchase at the end of three months.”
Mr Gobbitt frowned. It was a large sum; but then the value of the land would be enormous. “Six thousand dollars. Humph! Twelve hundred pounds—a great deal of money. If I considered the proposal—I do not say I shall—I should require the proper receipt of the Department, not the mere private receipt of the Commissioner.”