“Cloete looks at him hard—Never thought of _selling_ the ship. Expected the blamed old thing wouldn’t fetch half her insured value by this time. Then George flies out at him. What’s the meaning, then, of these silly jeers at ship-owning for the last three weeks? Had enough of them, anyhow.
“Angry at having his mouth made to water, see. Cloete don’t get excited. . . I am no squeamish ass, either, says he, very slowly. ’Tisn’t selling your old _Sagamore_ wants. The blamed thing wants tomahawking (seems the name _Sagamore_ means an Indian chief or something. The figure-head was a half-naked savage with a feather over one ear and a hatchet in his belt). Tomahawking, says he.
“What do you mean? asks George. . . Wrecking—it could be managed with perfect safety, goes on Cloete—your brother would then put in his share of insurance money. Needn’t tell him exactly what for. He thinks you’re the smartest business man that ever lived. Make his fortune, too. . . George grips the desk with both hands in his rage. . . You think my brother’s a man to cast away his ship on purpose. I wouldn’t even dare think of such a thing in the same room with him—the finest fellow that ever lived. . . Don’t make such noise; they’ll hear you outside, says Cloete; and he tells him that his brother is the salted pattern of all virtues, but all that’s necessary is to induce him to stay ashore for a voyage—for a holiday—take a rest—why not? . . . In fact, I have in view somebody up to that sort of game—Cloete whispers.
“George nearly chokes. . . So you think I am of that sort—you think _me_ capable—What do you take me for? . . . He almost loses his head, while Cloete keeps cool, only gets white about the gills. . . I take you for a man who will be most cursedly hard up before long. . . He goes to the door and sends away the clerks—there were only two—to take their lunch hour. Comes back . . . What are you indignant about? Do I want you to rob the widow and orphan? Why, man! Lloyd’s a corporation, it hasn’t got a body to starve. There’s forty or more of them perhaps who underwrote the lines on that silly ship of yours. Not one human being would go hungry or cold for it. They take every risk into consideration. Everything I tell you. . . That sort of talk. H’m! George too upset to speak—only gurgles and waves his arms; so sudden, you see. The other, warming his back at the fire, goes on. Wood-pulp business next door to a failure. Tinned-fruit trade nearly played out. . . You’re frightened, he says; but the law is only meant to frighten fools away. . . And he shows how safe casting away that ship would be. Premiums paid for so many, many years. No shadow of suspicion could arise. And, dash it all! a ship must meet her end some day. . .