"Funny chap, Cloete.

We sat all night drinking grogs, till it was time for him to go on board." It was then that Cloete, unembittered but weary, told him this story, with that utterly unconscious frankness of a patent-medicine man stranger to all moral standards.

Cloete concluded by remarking that he, had "had enough of the old country." George Dunbar had turned on him, too, in the end.

Cloete was clearly somewhat disillusioned.
As to Stafford, he died, professed loafer, in some East End hospital or other, and on his last day clamoured "for a parson," because his conscience worried him for killing an innocent man.

"Wanted somebody to tell him it was all right," growled my old ruffian, contemptuously.