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"Yes, so my father told me."

"Your father?"

"He claims to be a friend of yours. I'd not venture to say how often I've heard him speak of you."

Tyson sat up in his chair. "The devil you say! What's your name?"

"Hardie. Alan Hardie."

The consul got up with alacrity and strode over to grasp the young man's hand. "Hardie, you rogue! God bless my soul! Why didn't you tell me when you first came in? Claims to be? I should think he might. You're here with a friend, you say. Someone from home?"

"Yes. You'll remember him, sir. At least you'll remember about him--George McLeod."

"You don't tell me," the consul exclaimed, his face beaming. "That infant? But of course he'll have managed to grow up by this time. Where is he?"

"He's wandering along the waterfront. He thought we'd be putting you out, coming to call on steamer day. I decided to drop in for a moment, anyway."

"Putting me out! Nonsense! Hardie, I'm the idlest man in the whole of French Oceania. Why didn't you let me know you were coming? I might have been off somewhere, fishing. That's my chief occupation as consul."