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Mr. Grinnell, like many of the younger sons of England, had been pushed from the nest and told to fly. After some awkward fluttering about he had landed flat on his back in a hot, wet, dirty, Santa Cruzian village. There a tall, grim old man with a sinister face had taken charge of Mr. Grinnell and set him on his feet. A Yankee trader came along, and the lean old man put Mr. Grinnell and his traps on board her, paid his passage, and gave him a letter to "Tom Combe, Pulotu."

After shifting from one trader to another two or three times, Mr. Grinnell finally reached Pulotu, and found Combe on the club veranda. Combe seemed so peculiarly mild and helpless that Mr. Grinnell's first impression was that the old fellow must be awfully shrewd. He presented the letter.

"Read it," said Combe. "I ain't got my specs."

He unfolded the letter, and with blinking surprise read:

"Tom,—Give this boy a try. He can't be worse than anybody you would pick to run your business.—Brundage."

"A'right," said Combe, as if nothing unusual had taken place. "You're my manager. Come on out an' go to work. Jake Brundage was always saving of his words."