uldn't insist: any more than you yourself, captain."

"And what are you doing here?"

"I dropped in from Samarai, meaning to catch the Brisbane steamer
yonder. I've been diving up there all season. I'm a very fair diver,
really; only my luck is generally so poor."

* * * * *

To any passer-by he must have seemed the usual loafer, with a string of
woes on tap. But Wetherbee, one eye to the bulging pockets, appeared in
no way bored.

"Strolling along the front, I chanced to recognize you. _That_ was luck,
if you like. I've thought so. Especially since making inquiries. I've
made rather exhaustive inquiries. In fact, I believe I have your rating
fairly up to date." He coughed again. "Captain Wetherbee, do you
remember when we last met?"

"No," said Wetherbee shortly.

Thereupon Mr. Selden recalled that meeting, and others, and his voice
trailed like a snake in the dust, looping cryptic patterns. It was one
of those counts of grievance and disaster such as almost any broken
fugitive among far places has to tell. Thursday can offer them by the
yard, and dear at the price of a drink. He spoke of shares and deals and
swindling betrayal; of hope and fortune lost, and the false lead that
puts a man on the chute and sets him off for a blackleg and a wanderer.
All in the clipped jargon of the markets, a common tale, but with this
difference in the telling--it came away briefly, with the slow-biting
venom that such a fugitive would be apt to reserve for only one out of
all possible living listeners in the world. From over the hidden weapon
he drove home his point; while Wetherbee stood there rooted on the
jetty, like the Wedding Guest.

"... So you knifed the lot of us in the dark--everyone that trusted
you--and bolted. That was your way. You sent me ashore from that last
yachting party all primed to go my last penny on a dead bird. I was
flattered. I used to credit your honesty more or less myself--then."

"And now?" suggested Wetherbee.

Mr. Selden, late deacon, drew a husky breath.

"Why, now--I've caught up with you. I'm the flaw in the title, at 50 per
cent. I'm judgment out of the past! Verily, no man shall escape it: do
you mark? No man comes so far or hides his track so cleverly, even at
Thursday Island. I've got your record--as you've got mine, of course;
but yours is rather worse, with a warrant pending--of which, by the way,
I know the very date.... And, besides, I've nothing a