loving care that a
home could give. The Bishop sought refuge in platitudes, for of such
consisted his daily thoughts, running through his brain in certain
well defined, well worn brain paths. Then a wave of indignation passed
over him concerning his brother--the selfishness of turning his son
out, at this time of all times! Of shirking responsibility towards
him, of turning that responsibility over to another! To another whom
he had not even consulted! All his life his brother had had what he
wanted--riches, a beautiful home, an easy life. Yet at the first
breath of trouble he evaded his responsibilities and dumped them upon
another!

The Bishop worked himself up into a fine fury, seeing his future plans
upset, his easy-going life diverted from its normal, flowing course by
the advent of this scapegrace nephew. His eyes rested once more upon
the letter: "He is going out to you on the boat that carries this
letter." If so, then he must have already landed and would appear at
any moment. For the mailboat must have come in last night, and the
passengers had either been put ashore last evening, or had been put
ashore at sunrise, supposing the boat remained discharging cargo all
night. It was now eight o'clock. The youth should have been here.
Apparently, then, he had failed to catch this boat, and was coming the
following week. But the Bishop was troubled; he must go into town and
make sure. Since he was to be burdened with the rascal for a week (but
only for a week, he would send him packing home by the next boat, he
promised himself) his sense of duty prompted him to act at once. He
raised his fine, thin hands and clapped them together smartly.

"Rickshaw! Quickly!" he ordered the China-boy who appeared in answer
to his summons. A few minutes later he descended the broad steps of
the verandah and entered his neat, black rickshaw, with highly
polished brasses, drawn by two boys in immaculate white livery. The
Bishop kept no carriage--that would have seemed ostentatious--but his
smart, black rickshaw was to be seen all over town, stopping before
houses of high and low degree, but mostly high.

He reached the quais after a sharp run, passing the godowns filled
with rubber, which gave forth its peculiar, permeating odour upon the
heavy, stagnant air of the harbourside. No, the mailboat had gone on,
had weighed anchor early in the morning, at sunrise, they told him,
and had continued on her way up the coast. No such passen