One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. "Poor Mrs. "I tell you what, Mr. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. You are taking it for granted that I am ‘Alcide. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words.
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