’It appears he addressed himself in the first instance to the principal shipping-master.  Archie Ruthvel had just come in, and, as his story goes, was about to begin his arduous day by giving a dressing-down to his chief clerk.  Some of you might have known him—­an obliging little Portuguese half-caste with a miserably skinny neck, and always on the hop to get something from the shipmasters in the way of eatables—­a piece of salt pork, a bag of biscuits, a few potatoes, or what not.  One voyage, I recollect, I tipped him a live sheep out of the remnant of my sea-stock:  not that I wanted him to do anything for me—­he couldn’t, you know—­but because his childlike belief in the sacred right to perquisites quite touched my heart.  It was so strong as to be almost beautiful.  The race—­the two races rather—­and the climate . . .  However, never mind.  I know where I have a friend for life.

’Well, Ruthvel says he was giving him a severe lecture—­on official morality, I suppose—­when he heard a kind of subdued commotion at his back, and turning his head he saw, in his own words, something round and enormous, resembling a sixteen-hundred-weight sugar-hogshead wrapped in striped flannelette, up-ended in the middle of the large floor space in the office.  He declares he was so taken aback that for quite an appreciable time he did not realise the thing was alive, and sat still wondering for what purpose and by what means that object had been transported in front of his desk.  The archway from the ante-room was crowded with punkah-pullers, sweepers, police peons, the coxswain and crew of the harbour steam-launch, all craning their necks and almost climbing on each other’s backs.  Quite a riot.  By that time the fellow had managed to tug and jerk his hat clear of his head, and advanced with slight bows at Ruthvel, who told me the sight was so discomposing that for some time he listened, quite unable to make out what that apparition wanted.  It spoke in a voice harsh and lugubrious but intrepid, and little by little it dawned upon Archie that this was a development of the Patna case.  He says that as soon as he understood who it was before him he felt quite unwell—­Archie is so sympathetic and easily upset—­but pulled himself together and shouted “Stop!  I can’t listen to you.  You must go to the Master Attendant.  I can’t possibly listen to you.  Captain Elliot is the man you want to see.  This way, this way.”  He jumped up, ran round that long counter, pulled, shoved:  the other let him, surprised but obedient at first, and only at the door of the private office some sort of animal instinct made him hang back and snort like a frightened bullock.  “Look here! what’s up?  Let go!  Look here!” Archie flung open the door without knocking.  “The master of the Patna, sir,” he shouts.  “Go in, captain.”  He saw the old man lift his head from some writing so sharp that his nose-nippers fell off, banged the door to, and fled to his desk, where he had some papers waiting for his signature: