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"Most extr'ordinary!" said Mr. Grinnell.

"Un-hunh, ain't it? I got a manager out there now, an' he's no good. Drunk all the time, an' wants to fight. You go an' kick him off the place an' take his job. I got to try out your executive 'bility," said Combe, with a gentle, wary effort at being business-like. He could not discharge anybody. He had no fear; just a helpless shrinking from any kind of clash.

So Mr. Grinnell, believing that "his chance" had come, went out and found a squatty thick-faced Englishman asleep in a hammock. The squatty Englishman blustered and showed temper; but Brundage had seen the backbone down under Grinnell's fever-stained hide; so the squatty Englishman, in a profane way, called heaven and earth to witness his joy at being done with the blasted plantation. He then seemed determined to weep on Mr. Grinnell's neck out of sheer sympathy for the misery that lay before this "poor young 'un."

"Let's 'ave a drink to show no 'ard feelin's," said the ex-manager.

"No," said Mr. Grinnell. "I'm a teetotaller!"