UCKER, secretary of the Planters' Club, introduced Marlow to Laval. A genial soul was Tucker and, at the same time, the flower of discretion. He knew nothing of the visitors beyond the facts that they looked bored and lonely, that one was from the North and the other from the South and that both had been put up at the Planters' by members notoriously indiscreet in their chance acquaintanceships and offhand hospitalities.
Marlow's sponsor had once introduced an international spy to the club, and Laval's had once extended the club's privileges for a period of three weeks to a professional card sharp. Naturally one had to be careful; and so, neither of the sponsors being present, Tucker introduced the guests to each other in his happiest manner, thus safeguarding resident members, fellow islanders, from the possible risk of social or financial damage and at the same time maintaining his reputation as a genial official.
Marlow and Laval were grateful for the introduction. Laval ceased yawning and Marlow laid aside a month-old number of Punch. They sat before a window overlooking the harbor, with a low table between them.
“Beautiful island,” said Laval. “Salubrious climate.”
“Exactly—but devilish dull,” returned Marlow.
“Oh, deadly!” exclaimed the other, with a gesture of shoulders and hands. “Deadly dull! Health without life! Good for the constitution, like porridge—but of no zest.”
“You have put your finger on it,” said Marlow, with a slow and engaging smile. “What will you drink?”
“Ah! a question not to be lightly answered. The zest of life in this island lies in the drinks. A swizzle, my friend—of the green variety.”
Marlow signaled a waiter and gave an order.
“Excitement is a thing I adore,” continued Laval. “But I do not seek it here. Ah, no! For I have been here before. I travel for rest, for soothing change. I stop off here and there at my sweet whim, perhaps for no more than a swizzle or two, perhaps for a week, perhaps for a month. I look on at life as at pictures in a book. I travel to turn the pages.”
“You are lucky,” said Marlow. “I am not so fortunately circumstanced. Fact is, I am looking for an opportunity to take part in the business of life—and a business part, at that. I seek a commercial opportunity.”
“Commercial? You, sir? Your aspect does not suggest it! A soldier, a rider after the fox, an explorer of the jungle—any or all of these I see in you—but nothing of commerce. The desk, the great ledger, the ink, the closed door—I do not see you in that connection. But success to you, my friend, whatever your path in life!”
“Thanks. The same to you. You're sharp, Mr. Laval. I'm not yet a business man. I know nothing of the game.”
“Ah! Now I understand.”
They dined together a few hours later. They became very good friends. They rode and bathed together next day; and after their sport in the surf, while they lay on their backs in the warm sand and smoked cigarettes, Marlow told Laval all about his commercial aspirations.
W. L. B. Marlow had gone to a good school and distinguished himself as an athlete. He had gone to Sandhurst, where he had displayed dexterity as a swordsman and bayonet fighter, skill and understanding in horsemanship, keenness of eye and steadiness of hand generally and soundness of heart and temper in every situation. But, alas! he had also displayed a lack of comprehension of the intricacies of the science of mathematics which had queered his military ambitions for several years. For a time he had lived at home, playing cricket for his county, hunting, and sitting often with his widowed mother and an uncle in consultation over his moribund career.
Then had come the Great War, into which he had leaped enthusiastically and from which he had emerged, five years later, with a few scars, a complete grasp of the practical branches of the science of holding and hammering hostile forces, and a profounder ignorance than ever of the productive branches of the business of peace. He had emerged in time for his mother's funeral. Things had gone badly with the modest Marlow fortune during the war. The uncle had given Marlow what was left of it—two thousand one hundred and ten pounds, sixteen shillings and sevenpence—and a great deal of advice. Marlow had very wisely decided that the first thing to be done was to get himself and his money out of England.
“I want a living with a bit of excitement in it, physical adventures, don't you know; and I'm afraid this island hasn't what I want,” he concluded.