Out there he was by profession a hotel-keeper, first in Bangkok, then somewhere else, and ultimately in Sourabaya.

He dragged after him up and down that section of the tropical belt a silent, frightened, little woman with long ringlets, who smiled at one stupidly, showing a blue tooth.

I don't know why so many of us patronized his various establishments.

He was a noxious ass, and he satisfied his lust for silly gossip at the cost of his customers.

It was he who, one evening, as Morrison and Heyst went past the hotel--they were not his regular patrons--whispered mysteriously to the mixed company assembled on the veranda: "The spider and the fly just gone by, gentlemen." Then, very important and confidential, his thick paw at the side of his mouth: "We are among ourselves; well, gentlemen, all I can say is, don't you ever get mixed up with that Swede.