Kate Meredith, Financier by Cutcliffe Hyne

Mr. Smith had been away from his creature comforts for a spell of twenty hours, and most of that time had been spent on the thwart of a dancing surf boat in the embraces of a dank sea fog. He had been divorced from food, stimulant and tobacco smoke for all that time -- the surf boat had been twice upset in getting off, and drowned all the matches -- and as a consequence his temper was vile, and his language was sulphurous. He was barely thankful when he came back to the beach again and found Malla-Nulla factory neither burned nor looted; he was openly ungrateful when he found that the last of the stock of limes had gone mouldy, and realized for the moment a Coast cocktail was beyond the limitations of art. As a consequence Mr. Smith romped up and down the untidy mess-room in a state bordering on frenzy, and in his own especial polyglot reviled the unknown K. O'Neill as the _fons et origo mali_.

In addition to the legitimate boat boys, the whole of the other factory boys had been crammed into the surf boat, and as a consequence they also were chilled, cramped, and bad-tempered. His own body servant was openly insolent when commanded to produce dry tobacco and a pipe. And when on the top of all this Mr. Smith opened Carter's bedroom door, stumbled over the sleepy White-Man's-Trouble, and was promptly floored by that nervous savage and threatened with a well-filed matchet, the remaining rags of his temper at last gave way. He sat there on the floor, a very unkempt figure, and for five minutes without stopping (or repeating himself) said exactly what he thought.