Amid general rejoicings, he would land the rice all the same, explain to the people that it was an advance, that they were in debt to him now; would preach to them energy and industry, and make an elaborate note in a pocket-diary which he always carried; and this would be the end of that transaction.
I don't know if Morrison thought so, but the villagers had no doubt whatever about it.

Whenever a coast village sighted the brig it would begin to beat all its gongs and hoist all its streamers, and all its girls would put flowers in their hair and the crowd would line the river bank, and Morrison would beam and glitter at all this excitement through his single eyeglass with an air of intense gratification.

He was tall and lantern-jawed, and clean-shaven, and looked like a barrister who had thrown his wig to the dogs.
We used to remonstrate with him: "You will never see any of your advances if you go on like this, Morrison." He would put on a knowing air.
"I shall squeeze them yet some day--never you fear.

And that reminds me"-- pulling out his inseparable pocketbook--"there's that So-and-So village.

They are pretty well off again; I may just as well squeeze them to begin with." He would make a ferocious entry in the pocketbook.
Memo: Squeeze the So-and-So village at the first time of calling.
Then he would stick the pencil back and snap the elastic on with inflexible finality; but he never began the squeezing.