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sentence, clutching one of his fingers like a child, breathing as easily. The load lay beside him now, and he prepared to lift it.

2
    I
    AT EIGHT IN the morning on his way to the jetty Scobie called at the bank. The manager’s office was shaded and cool: a glass of iced water stood on top of a safe. ‘Good morning, Robinson.’
    Robinson was tall and hollow-chested and bitter because he hadn’t been posted to Nigeria. He said, ‘When will this filthy weather break? The rains are late.’
    ‘They’ve started in the Protectorate.’
    ‘In Nigeria,’ Robinson said, ‘one always knew where one was. What can I do for you, Scobie?’
    ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
    ‘Of course. I never sit down before ten myself. Standing up keeps the digestion in order.’ He rambled restlessly across his office on legs like stilts: he took a sip of the iced water with distaste as though it were medicine. On his desk Scobie saw a book called
Diseases of the Urinary Tract
open at a coloured illustration. ‘What can I do for you?’ Robinson repeated.
    ‘Give me two hundred and fifty pounds,’ Scobie said with a nervous attempt at jocularity.
    ‘You people always think a bank’s made of money,’ Robinson mechanically jested. ‘How much do you really want?’
    ‘Three fifty.’
    ‘What’s your balance at the moment?’
    ‘I think about thirty pounds. It’s the end of the month.’
    ‘We’d better check up on that.’ He called a clerk and while they waited Robinson paced the little room—six paces to the wall and round again. ‘There and back a hundred and seventy-six times,’ he said, ‘makes a mile. I try and put in three miles before lunch. It keeps one healthy. In Nigeria I used to walk a mile and a half to breakfast at the club, and then a mile and a half back to the office. Nowhere fit to walk here,’ he said, pivoting on the carpet. A clerk laid a slip of paper on the desk. Robinson held it close to his eyes, as though he wanted to smell it. ‘Twenty-eight pounds fifteen and sevenpence,’ he said.
    ‘I want to send my wife to South Africa.’
    ‘Oh yes. Yes.’
    ‘I daresay,’ Scobie said, ‘I might do it on a bit less. I shan’t be able to allow her very much on my salary though.’
    ‘I really don’t see how …’
    ‘I thought perhaps I could get an overdraft,’ he said vaguely. ‘Lots of people have them, don’t they? Do you know I believe I only had one once—for a few weeks—for about fifteen pounds. I didn’t like it. It scared me. I always felt I owed the bank manager the money.’
    ‘The trouble is, Scobie,’ Robinson said, ‘we’ve had orders to be very strict about overdrafts. It’s the war, you know. There’s one valuable security nobody can offer now, his life.’
    ‘Yes, I see that of course. But my life’s pretty good and I’m not stirring from here. No submarines for me. And the job’s secure, Robinson,’ he went on with the same ineffectual attempt at flippancy.
    ‘The Commissioner’s retiring, isn’t he?’ Robinson said, reaching the safe at the end of the room and turning.
    ‘Yes, but I’m not.’
    ‘I’m glad to hear that, Scobie. There’ve been rumours …’
    ‘I suppose I’ll have to retire one day, but that’s a long way off. I’d much rather die in my boots. There’s always my life insurance policy, Robinson. What about that for security?’
    ‘You know you dropped one insurance three years ago.’
    ‘That was the year Louise went home for an operation.’
    ‘I don’t think the paid-up value of the other two amounts to much, Scobie.’
    ‘Still they protect you in case of death, don’t they?’
    ‘If you go on paying the premiums. We haven’t any guarantee, you know.’
    ‘Of course not,’ Scobie said, ‘I see that.’
    ‘I’m very sorry, Scobie. This isn’t personal. It’s the policy of the bank. If you’d wanted fifty pounds, I’d have lent it you myself.’
    ‘Forget it, Robinson,’ Scobie said. ‘It’s not important.’