A Personal Problem
“All the island’s up at the commissioner’s to-night—he always gets abale of ice up from Auckland on steamer day. You were surprised tofind me here, eh?”
“So-so.” The fat man wiped his face and poured another drink. “You’rea damned ironic brute, Cranshaw! How was I to know that the JohnSmith, our Raratonga agent, was yourself? You have nerve. I alwayssaid you had nerve.”
The long, lean man looked across the table, inspecting his guestcuriously. He had looked forward to the coming of the firm’s juniorpartner, 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 notmince words. You had me driven out of Auckland; you took over my stockin the company; you married Agnes, and you’ve grown fat. I fancyyou’re punished enough—you needn’t look at me like that, man! Avaruais 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 hemopped his face he shot uneasy glances at the other man from deep-setblack eyes.
An overlarge diamond flashed on his fat hand, and another glittered inhis tie.
“You’re a sly dog, Cranshaw, a sly dog,” he muttered, then his voicetook on vigor. “What do you mean, anyway? You needn’t think thatbecause your bally bungalow is out here at the edge of town you canthreaten me. I won’t stand for it. I’ll discharge you—I’ll show you upbefore the commissioner—”
“Hold on, man! Great Heavens, don’t you see that I’m in your power?”Cranshaw leaned over the table, his face anxious, pleading.
But behind the anxiety in his gray eyes there was a hard coldness,quickly veiled.
“I’m not threatening you, Hobson—it’s the other way around. I’msatisfied, here in Avarua; I’m the company’s agent, no one knows who Iused to be, I’ve a good salary. Come, don’t bear malice! The old lifeis forgotten, so let the dead bury their dead. Don’t be hard on me,old man! I know you didn’t treat me square, but you married Agnes—Iwas beaten, and that’s an end to it. Now I’m contented and prosperinghere. You won’t give me away, will you? You won’t discharge me, sendme down into hell a second time?”
Hobson took a cheroot from the table and lit it. His flash ofapprehension had vanished altogether.
“No,” he returned slowly, judicially. As he was inspecting the diamondon his finger he did not notice the hard gray eyes across the table.“No, Cranshaw. I didn’t treat you right, I’ll admit, but bygones arebygones. As you say, you’re in my power. I never quite believed youstole that money myself.”
A burst of terrible irony ripped through the mask of Cranshaw’s leanface; but it was gone instantly.
Hobson glanced up with complacent, cunning frankness.
“I misunderstood you, I guess,” he went on heavily. “To tell thetruth, I half expected you had got me here to—to—”
He paused, licking his lips. Cranshaw broke out into a loud, ringinglaugh.
“Nonsense, man! Come, drink up and shake hands on it all—if you bearno malice we’ll cry quits, eh? No, things have turned out for thebest, far as I’m concerned. And so you’ll not bear hard on me, oldman? You’ll just forget who I used to be?”
Hobson’s little leering eyes cleared of their suspicion and somethingvery like a sigh of relief shook his fat chest. Their glasses clinkedtogether.
“Here’s how!”
The personal problem, it seemed, was closed fi