What could I say?
He isn't the sort of man one can speak familiarly to.

There's something in him.
One doesn't care to.
"'But what's the object?
Are you thinking of keeping possession of the mine ?' I asked him.
"'Something of the sort,' he says.

'I am keeping hold.' "'But all this is as dead as Julius Caesar,' I cried.

'In fact, you have nothing worth holding on to, Heyst.' "'Oh, I am done with facts,' says he, putting his hand to his helmet sharply with one of his short bows." Thus dismissed, Davidson went on board his ship, swung her out, and as he was steaming away he watched from the bridge Heyst walking shoreward along the wharf.

He marched into the long grass and vanished--all but the top of his white cork helmet, which seemed to swim in a green sea.
Then that too disappeared, as if it had sunk into the living depths of the tropical vegetation, which is more jealous of men's conquests than the ocean, and which was about to close over the last vestiges of the liquidated Tropical Belt Coal Company--A.