There are no signposts in the sea.

Vita Sackville-West

Cecil Rhodes and the shark

MARK TWAIN

I HAVE A TALE to tell now, which has not as yet been in print. In 1870 a young stranger arrived in Sydney, and set about finding something to do; but he knew no-one, and brought no recommendations, and the result was that he got no employment. He had aimed high, at first, but as time and his money wasted away he grew less and less exacting, until at last he was willing to serve in the humblest capacities if so he might get bread and shelter. But luck was still against him; he could find no opening of any sort.

Finally his money was all gone. He walked the streets all day, thinking; he walked them all night, thinking, thinking, and growing hungrier and hungrier. At dawn he found himself well away from the town and drifting aimlessly along the harbour shore. As he was passing by a nodding shark-fisher the man looked up and said—

‘Say, young fellow, take my line a spell, and change my luck for me.’

‘How do you know I won’t make it worse?’

‘Because you can’t. It has been at its worst all night. If you can’t change it, no harm’s done; if you do change it, it’s for the better, of course. Come.’

‘All right, what will you give?’

‘I’ll give you the shark, if you catch one.’

‘And I will eat it, bones and all. Give me the line.’

‘Here you are. I will get away, now, for awhile, so that my luck won’t spoil yours; for many and many a time I’ve noticed that if— there, pull in, pull in, man, you’ve got a bite! I knew how it would be. Why, I knew you for a born son of luck the minute I saw you. All right—he’s landed.’

It was an unusually large shark—‘a full nineteen-footer’, the fisherman said, as he laid the creature open with his knife.

‘Now you rob him, young man, while I step to my hamper for a fresh bait. There’s generally something in them worth going for. You’ve changed my luck, you see. But my goodness, I hope you haven’t changed your own.’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t matter; don’t worry about that. Get your bait. I’ll rob him.’

When the fisherman got back the young man had just finished washing his hands in the bay, and was starting away.

‘What, you are not going?’

‘Yes. Good-bye.’

‘But what about your shark?’

‘The shark? Why, what use is he to me?’

‘What use is he? I like that. Don’t you know that we can go and report him to Government, and you’ll get a clean solid eighty shillings bounty? Hard cash, you know. What do you think about it now?’

‘Oh, well, you can collect it.’

‘And keep it? Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, this is odd. You’re one of those sort they call eccentrics, I judge. The saying is, you mustn’t judge a man by his clothes, and I’m believing it now. Why yours are looking just ratty, don’t you know; and yet you must be rich.’

‘I am.’

The young man walked slowly back to the town, deeply musing as he went. He halted a moment in front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a ‘stand-up’. There was a good deal of it, and it cost five shillings. He tendered a sovereign, got his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to himself, ‘There isn’t enough to buy clothes with,’ and went his way.

At half-past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney was sitting in his morning-room at home, settling his breakfast with the morning paper. A servant put his head in and said:

‘There’s a sundowner at the door wants to see you, sir.’

‘What do you bring that kind of a message here for? Send him about his business.’

‘He won’t go, sir. I’ve tried.’

‘He won’t go? That’s—why, that’s unusual. He’s one of two things, then: he’s a remarkable person, or he’s crazy. Is he crazy?’

‘No, sir. He don’t look it.’

‘Then he’s remarkable. What does he say he wants?’

‘He won’t tell, sir; only says it’s very important.’

‘And won’t go. Does he say he won’t go?’

‘Says he’ll stand there till he sees you, sir, if it’s all day.’

‘And yet isn’t crazy. Show him up.’

The sundowner was shown in. The broker said to himself, ‘No, he’s not crazy; that is easy to see; so he must be the other thing.’

Then aloud, ‘Well, my good fellow, be quick about it; don’t waste any words; what is it you want?’

‘I want to borrow a hundred thousand pounds.’

‘Scott! (It’s a mistake; he is crazy . . . No—he can’t be—not with that eye.) Why, you take my breath away. Come, who are you?’

‘Nobody that you know.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Cecil Rhodes.’

‘No, I don’t remember hearing the name before. Now then—just for curiosity’s sake—what has sent you to me on this extraordinary errand?’

‘The intention to make a hundred thousand pounds for you and as much for myself within the next sixty days.’

‘Well, well, well. It is the most extraordinary idea that—sit down—you interest me. And somehow you—well, you fascinate me; I think that that is about the word. And it isn’t your proposition— no, that doesn’t fascinate me; it’s something else, I don’t quite know what; something that’s born in you and oozes out of you, I suppose. Now then just for curiosity’s sake again, nothing more: as I understand it, it is your desire to bor—’

‘I said intention.’

‘Pardon, so you did. I thought it was an unheedful use of the word—an unheedful valuing of its strength, you know.’

‘I knew its strength.’

‘Well, I must say—but look here, let me walk the floor a little, my mind is getting into a sort of whirl, though you don’t seem disturbed any. (Plainly this young fellow isn’t crazy; but as to his being remarkable—well, really he amounts to that, and something over.) Now then, I believe I am beyond the reach of further astonishment. Strike, and spare not. What is your scheme?’

‘To buy the wool crop—deliverable in sixty days.’

‘What, the whole of it?’

‘The whole of it.’

‘No, I was not quite out of the reach of surprises, after all. Why, how you talk! Do you know what our crop is going to foot up?’

‘Two and a half million sterling—maybe a little more.’

‘Well, you’ve got your statistics right, any way. Now, then, do you know what the margins would foot up, to buy it at sixty days?’

‘The hundred thousand pounds I came here to get.’

‘Right, once more. Well, dear me, just to see what would happen, I wish you had the money. And if you had it, what would you do with it?’

‘I shall make two hundred thousand pounds out of it in sixty days.’

‘You mean, of course, that you might make it if—’

‘I said “shall”.’

‘Yes, by George, you did say “shall”! You are the most definite devil I ever saw, in the matter of language. Dear, dear, dear, look here! Definite speech means clarity of mind. Upon my word I believe you’ve got what you believe to be a rational reason, for venturing into this house, an entire stranger, on this wild scheme of buying the wool crop of an entire colony on speculation. Bring it out—I am prepared—acclimatised, if I may use the word. Why would you buy the crop, and why would you make that sum out of it? That is to say, what makes you think you—’

‘I don’t think—I know.’

‘Definite again. How do you know?’

‘Because France has declared war against Germany, and wool has gone up fourteen per cent in London and is still rising.’

‘Oh, in-deed? Now then, I’ve got you! Such a thunderbolt as you have just let fly ought to have made me jump out of my chair, but it didn’t stir me the least little bit, you see. And for a very simple reason: I have read the morning paper. You can look at it if you want to. The fastest ship in the service arrived at eleven o’clock last night, fifty days out from London. All her news is printed here. There are no war-clouds anywhere; and as for wool, why, it is the low-spiritedest commodity in the English market. It is your turn to jump, now . . . Well, why, don’t you jump? Why do you sit there in that placid fashion, when—’

‘Because I have later news.’

‘Later news? Oh, come—later news than fifty days, brought steaming hot from London by the—’

‘My news is only ten days old.’

‘Oh, Mun-chausen, hear the maniac talk! Where did you get it?’

‘Got it out of a shark.’

‘Oh, oh, oh, this is too much! Front! call the police bring the gun—raise the town! All the asylums in Christendom have broken loose in the single person of—’

‘Sit down! And collect yourself. Where is the use in getting excited? Am I excited? There is nothing to get excited about. When I make a statement which I cannot prove, it will be time enough for you to begin to offer hospitality to damaging fancies about me and my sanity.’

‘Oh, a thousand, thousand pardons! I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am ashamed of myself for thinking that a little bit of a circumstance like sending a shark to England to fetch back a market report—’

‘What does your middle initial stand for, sir?’

‘Andrew. What are you writing?’

‘Wait a moment. Proof about the shark—and another matter. Only ten lines. There—now it is done. Sign it.’

‘Many thanks—many. Let me see; it says—it says oh, come, this is interesting! Why—why—look here! Prove what you say here, and I’ll put up the money, and double as much, if necessary, and divide the winnings with you, half and half. There, now—I’ve signed; make your promise good if you can. Show me a copy of the London Times only ten days old.’

‘Here it is—and with it these buttons and a memorandum book that belonged to the man the shark swallowed. Swallowed him in the Thames, without a doubt; for you will notice that the last entry in the book is dated “London”, and is of the same date as the Times, and says, “Ber confequentz der Kreigeseflarun, reife ich heute nach Deutchland ab, aur bak ich mein leben auf dem Ultar meines Landes legen mag”—as clean native German as anybody can put upon paper, and means that in consequence of the declaration of war, this loyal soul is leaving for home to-day, to fight. And he did leave, too, but the shark had him before the day was done, poor fellow.’

‘And a pity, too. But there are times for mourning, and we will attend to this case further on; other matters are pressing, now. I will go down and set the machinery in motion in a quiet way and buy the crop. It will cheer the drooping spirits of the boys, in a transitory way. Everything is transitory in this world. Sixty days hence, when they are called to deliver the goods, they will think they’ve been struck by lightning. But there is a time for mourning, and we will attend to that case along with the other one. Come along, I’ll take you to my tailor. What did you say your name is?’

‘Cecil Rhodes.’

‘It is hard to remember. However, I think you will make it easier by and by, if you live. There are three kinds of people—Commonplace Men, Remarkable Men, and Lunatics. I’ll classify you with the Remarkables, and take the chances.’

The deal went through, and secured to the young stranger the first fortune he ever pocketed.