It was as if he expected Heyst's usual white suit of the tropics to change into a shining garment, flowing down to his toes, and a pair of great dazzling wings to sprout out on the Swede's shoulders--and didn't want to miss a single detail of the transformation.

But if Heyst was an angel from on high, sent in answer to prayer, he did not betray his heavenly origin by outward signs.
So, instead of going on his knees, as he felt inclined to do, Morrison stretched out his hand, which Heyst grasped with formal alacrity and a polite murmur in which "Trifle--delighted--of service," could just be distinguished.
"Miracles do happen," thought the awestruck Morrison.

To him, as to all of us in the Islands, this wandering Heyst, who didn't toil or spin visibly, seemed the very last person to be the agent of Providence in an affair concerned with money.

The fact of his turning up in Timor or anywhere else was no more wonderful than the settling of a sparrow on one's window-sill at any given moment.

But that he should carry a sum of money in his pocket seemed somehow inconceivable.
So inconceivable that as they were trudging together through the sand of the roadway to the custom-house--another mud hovel--to pay the fine, Morrison broke into a cold sweat, stopped short, and exclaimed in faltering accents: "I say! You aren't joking, Heyst ?" "Joking!" Heyst's blue eyes went hard as he turned them on the discomposed Morrison.