Oliver Banfield: The Rise of Australian National Consciousness, #3

By John Worth

Early twentieth century, the States federate to become the Commonwealth of Australia.  At almost the same time, committing troops to the conflict in South Africa. Set within the context of this military campaign, is the drama of the young heiress Audrey Farquar. 

 

Audrey has fled Sydney in fear of her life;-whoever has done away with her father, was now after Audrey.  Soon Audrey finds herself in South Africa; en route for Europe, she has been diverted due to interruption of the ongoing war.  Oliver Banfield, a clerk, from her father's firm, has been sent after Audrey by the firm's head accountant, to keep an eye on her. She is supposedly unbalanced.

 

Audrey dodges Oliver all across South Africa, believing he is tracking her to do her harm.  It turns out, he was merely to be a stooge.  Oliver eventually comes to understand that immediately he points her out to the evil Bulller, she will die.  Due to circumstances - mostly beyond his own control - Oliver takes part in the siege at Elands River.  Recovering from wounds, Oliver eventually tracks Audrey to her destination.  Buller, though, is still on the trail. 

 

The story ends in a dramatic showdown in the snow of Bavaria.  The cryptic note Audrey had received mysteriously in Sydney and memorised, turns out to be details of her father's secret Swiss bank account. Her father's head accountant is revealed to be the arch villain.

 

Despite the odds stacked against them by this cunning and relentless foe, they win through.  The troubles experienced by these two, instead of destroying them, has strengthened their characters.

 

On the wider stage, the separate states sent volunteers to fight in the Boer War.  After Federation, these troops returned Australia, as nucleus for the nation's army.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Worth
• Release date: Jun 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201989477

John Worth

John Worth grew up in Western Australia, and spent much of his early life working in the back country of that vast state.  The bush was in his blood, but he nurtured other dreams. Shortly after marrying a young schoolteacher, he and his wife took themselves off to Europe, where he studied sculpture in Munich and London. Returning eventually to Australia, Worth began his career as a sculptor, working and exhibiting, mainly in Perth and later Melbourne. Later, still working mainly in bronze, Worth moved to Brisbane.  After some years, he also began painting seriously, exhibiting in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne.  Beginning around the same time as this gradual shift to painting, he also began to write, continuing to do so for the last twenty years. Now living near Byron Bay.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

It was a tricky business indeed; quite a perilous exercise that the lunch hour group of idlers had gathered, hands in pockets to observe.  With bated breath they watched - an impromptu street theatre.  Slowly, carefully, a grand piano all trussed and bandaged with jute lagging, was being lowered from a ship's gantry onto the dray waiting below on the wharf.  The rattle and snort, the occasional toot from the steam gantry, punctuate the proceedings.  With a brisk wind coming off the harbour, the operation was fraught with difficulty. The situation not much helped by the advice offered from the gallery, nor at all by the shouting and cane waving from the top-hatted gentleman on the wharf side. He was almost beside himself with anxiety; - obviously the piano's owner.  The carrier's horses, made nervous by his agitation, were becoming increasingly fractious. This in turn had involved the burly drayman, who began shouting at the gent in the top hat.

All in all, thought Oliver Banfield gleefully, what a hoot.  He settled in to watch the free lunch-time pantomime.

Oliver often wandered down to the quay when the weather was balmy; something like this scene was always happening, always some diversion.  He never tired of it, the port.  He loved the excitement, the hustle and bustle, the impatient tooting of steam tugs, the occasional long low hooot; another ship leaving.

For Oliver, the very smell of it, redolent of coal smoke, tar, all kinds of strange unknown, foreign aromas and always the scent of the sea spelt excitement, the romance of distant shores.  It was his habit to take his lunch down by the quay, sitting as now on a large cast iron bollard, eating his cold mutton and pickle sandwich.  Oliver always felt as if he was seated right at the nation's front door.

As indeed it was.  it was mostly from right here, from every part of the globe, that all kinds of exotic and unusual goods and indeed people, first entered the country. Right here at Sydney's Circular Quay.  And Oliver loved it, because it was also the gateway out, out into the whole great world beyond; his dream.

Consulting his pocket watch, he sighed, shrugged. Time to go; to return to the drudgery.  Back to the offices of James Farquar and Ponsford Pty Ltd., Pacific Traders and Ship's Providores.

Oliver had slogged it out for three years, so far.  He had another two years of this before he would even be considered for a posting.

The young clerk yearned for the islands of the Pacific, coconut palms, the trade winds in his hair; for adventure, romance.  Two years!

Oliver lingered just a few minutes more; but no, he was fated to be disappointed.  The drama had not reached it's conclusion - dammit! - and time was up.  The young man had harboured a secret desire, you see; he had dearly wished to see the piano fall - Just imagine the sound effects - he thought wistfully.  Carefully folding his waxed lunch paper and putting it into his pocket, he stood up.

Now he would have to hurry; it didn't do to be late at Farquar Ponsford, or the Firm as it was generally known.  Very big on punctuality and service the Firm, Oliver thought wryly to himself - not all that big on wages, though; no -

But he wasn't a completely free man, our Oliver; he had to grin and bear it, this job he sometimes found so irksome.  His widowed mother's house mortgage payments depended also upon his pay as a still junior clerk.

Not that Oliver resented that, not at all.  He was proud to be able at last to contribute.  In fact he had battled with his mother to leave school and take up this job, but it did sometimes feel as if he was locked in, constrained.

At least he could see a way through to eventual advancement via the Firm.  Without the need for false modesty, Oliver knew he was considered a bright lad within the Firm's hierarchy; a lad with potential, prospects.

So nose to the grindstone, he would remind himself grimly.  To eventually get a posting as company agent, - in some far away romantic and obscure port, was the young Oliver’s wishful dream.  Papeete perhaps; Port Moresby, Honiara...

He strode along, a strapping youth in his first prime, a good-looking young fellow, seemingly oblivious to the occasional giggle, the admiring glances he received from amongst the lunch crowds of young women.

Oliver had as yet not really focussed upon young women; brought up an only child with just his mother in the house, he didn't quite know what to do about girls at all, really.  He tended not to meet their eyes as he passed them in the street.  They made him uncomfortable, unsettled him, with all their giggling and nonsense.

One can almost forgive such a young man his handsome good looks, when he is so innocent. Not that Oliver Banfield was completely without the sin of pride; he took pride in his physical prowess, especially at cricket.  His intelligence also, his wide knowledge of many subjects gave him much satisfaction.  For although not greatly schooled, young Oliver was something of an auto-didact.  He read voraciously, retaining much of what he read.  Like most self -taught people though, Oliver's scholarship roamed everywhere, and took in bits and pieces of everything, much like the blackbird.  His erstwhile school mates used to rag him, calling him the professor.  He had always taken the teasing in good part, in fact he had always been secretly proud of the jibe.  But as for physical vanity, narcissism; - pleasingly, he had none.

Coming around the corner from Spring Street into Pitt Street, wherein lie his place of work, Oliver's eye caught that of the attractive young woman on the the opposite corner.  She was really beautiful, he realized in a flash.  Gobsmacked, Oliver found it difficult to appear as if he had not been hit by this thunderbolt.  His feet felt clumsy, suddenly too large, hard to manage.  Just to maintain a normal steady walk took almost all of his concentration.  He was really struggling to maintain some semblance of equilibrium, physically and emotionally.  Perhaps for the first time, Oliver Banfield had really looked at a girl.

He recognized her of course.  She was that Audrey Farquar, daughter of one of the Firm's principals and founders.  She had lately returned from Europe, her picture had appeared in the newspaper just recently in the society pages.

Though shy and ill at ease with young ladies, Oliver was nevertheless a well brought up youth; he knew his manners, at least.  Flushed, befuddled, eventually he remembered them.

But as he doffed his hat, the young woman turned to her companion, another young lady.  Holding her fan in front of her mouth, she was saying something inaudible to her friend, causing them both to begin giggling.  Miss Farquar had ignored his salutation!

Ears burning, mortified, Oliver stepped out smartly to cross the road and collided with a chimney sweep and his barrow coming from the other direction.

To compound his humiliation, to bring his cup of bitterness to overflowing, as he vainly tried to clean the soot from his shirt-front he clearly heard his spoilt, pretty tormentor say:

'Oh and isn't he such a pompous fellow!'  Followed by much giggling, as they went off.  It was just as well they had, he thought bitterly.  For it was then he realized; he had stepped back into a steaming heap of fresh horse shit.  The whole humiliating incident was enough to throw Oliver into a black mood for the rest of the afternoon. - What a detestable girl!

But that was not to be all; salt was yet to be rubbed into his wounds.  As Oliver stepped through the impressive portals of the premises of his employers, he had passed the firm's chief accountant, going out to his lunch.

This remote and formidable creature was the terror of all the junior clerks.  Not that he was physically impressive; far from it.  Mr. Martin Purves was a colourless looking individual, somewhat below average height and of negligible physique.  Nevertheless, they all feared him.  He always spoke, Purves - whenever he did speak to underlings - in a quiet, thin almost inaudible voice. Never raising it, never showing anger.  No, the chief accountant's power over them was all the more terrifying for this lack of emotion.  One never knew if one had offended, transgressed.  At the end of the week, though, a docked pay, even a brusque dismissal notice might tell the story.

Among the clerks, he was known as the Death Adder.  A pun upon his profession, and a reflection upon that quiet, unobtrusive but very poisonous reptile.

Oliver was fuming all the way to his desk.  The swine!  Oliver had made sure, despite his mishap with the chimney sweep, that he was still within his lunch hour - nevertheless, as Purves had pointedly looked at his turnip of a watch, Oliver had ducked his head apologetically, guiltily.  How he hated himself for this involuntary, craven act!  If only he had looked the little toad steadily in the eye!

There was one thing about himself which caused dissatisfaction in the private heart of the young clerk. It gnawed away at him, what he perceived as his own timidity; in unkinder moments, as his cowardice. Such a trifling incident could bother him for days; secretly the young man would rage at himself.  Why couldn't he have handled it better - his friend Darcy Bennett for example would have surely come out of it better, he was sure.  But Darcy had savoir faire, he grinned sardonically to himself, though without envy.

In the morning, there was a note upon his desk.  Pointing out that the firm expected all employees to uphold the reputation of the firm; clean and neat attire at all times, certainly a basic requirement.

In a rage, Oliver threw the offending message into the waste paper basket; despising himself again later when, unobserved, he retrieved and smoothed the crumpled wad.  The Death Adder was known to go through the baskets, checking on waste and 'frivolous messages'.  He was probably expected to file this rotten memo for future reference and reflection.  As he did so, he sneered at himself, in self-disgust.  God!  Two more long years. 

Sunday morning - ah heaven!  Oliver laughed to himself as he stretched luxuriously.  The infuriating and humiliating episode of two days ago now forgotten; Oliver was looking forward to the prospect of a beautiful, work-free day. 

Funny, he mused; on a week day, how difficult it could be to wake, to function.  To get into the hated harness, the drudgery.  Yet on Sunday, how early, how refreshed, one woke.  Pondering thus, her lay there for a few delicious moments, enjoying the sounds of Sunday; church bells in the distance, roosters crowing, a dog barking - the awakening neighbourhood.

Springing out of bed, Oliver donned a pair of stained old canvas trousers, took a favourite well-worn linen shirt from the cupboard.  Still dressing as he went, he skipped down the stairs; if he was a bit nifty, he thought, he would be out of the house before his mother knew it.  Oliver was going fishing with one of his fellow clerks from the firm, his mate Darcy Bennett.  And Bennett was a stickler for the adage: fishing is best done early.  But Oliver was out of luck.  His mother stuck her head out from the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs. 'Morning dear,' she called cheerfully, 'I've just about got your breakfast ready.'

Oliver groaned.  He was just on the point of protesting that he had to dash, when a stray whiff of the delicious bacon and eggs, the hot buttered toast, assailed his nostrils. Oliver's stomach contracted sharply. It wanted that breakfast.

Hesitating for just that moment too long, all resolve was lost; he came into the kitchen, hastily kissing his mother on the cheek.

'Morning mum. Mother you didn't have to do this, you know. You should have a good lie in yourself.  You work yourself to the bone all bloody week as it is.'  He gave her a hug.

'- And you don't have to start swearing about the place like a wharfie either.'  She gave back. 'It's Sunday, and I suppose you won't be going to church again, as well.'  Her son thought it best not to buy into that one; ducking his head he began hastily putting the bacon eggs and toast together as a sandwich, over her protests.

'At least you could sit down like a civilized person and eat at the table, Oliver.'

'Look mother, I'm already late for Darcy; he is dead keen to get away real early.'  Neither Banfield had noticed the rather tousled head sticking around the kitchen back door. 'Quite right Mrs. B.  Give it to him hot and strong. What a heathen!'  It was the aforementioned Darcy.  Without a by-your-leave, Darcy slipped onto a chair, and began to pick at Oliver's bacon.  Ignoring Oliver's ‘Oi! ‘ He gave Mrs. Banfield an ingratiating grin.

'He doesn't know how lucky he is, Mrs. B; I was up at the church for six o'clock mass already, and you don't suppose there was any breakfast at all in the offing at home, do you.'  Bennett looked up angelically at Mrs. Banfield.

'But it's alright for you prods, he'll probably go to hell anyhow.' Bennet's engaging grin always won out with Oliver's mother; though tut-tutting at his outrageous comment, she nevertheless busied herself with getting some breakfast for him.

Later, as he was about to leave, Oliver looked back at his mother.  He was filled with a rush of affection for her. Like young men will, he did take her a little for granted.  But Darcy's remark about how lucky he was to have such a mother, had given him thought.  He did love her, this quietly courageous woman who had brought him up, single-handed. 

Oliver's father he had never known; Harold Banfield had died in a tragic accident when Oliver was but a child. Whilst clearing his newly bought farm, he had been felling a large gum tree when a dead branch had fallen, killing him instantly.

Oliver's mother had been forced to sell up the small farm of their dreams outside Parramatta, and together with her young son, had moved to Sydney.  Having emigrated from England, she had no family in Australia to whom she could turn. Once again Oliver had a great feeling of admiration for her in doing it all alone.

A slanting early sunbeam caught her now, standing in the middle of the kitchen smiling after him. Her face was flushed from cooking over the wood stove, and a stray wisp of hair had escaped from her bun, causing her to blow at it, futilely.

Nevertheless, perhaps for the first time, Oliver realized she was still a handsome woman.  Swiftly he crossed to her, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead.  Winking back over his shoulder at his surprised mother, he went out to join the waiting Darcy Bennett.

'Don't forget to bring home some oysters,' she called after them.

CHAPTER TWO

Audrey

As she sat, reading the letter for at least the tenth time, trying to marshal her chaotic thoughts, the sheltered and somewhat spoilt young woman found herself suddenly having to confront the real world.

Although written in a perfect clerk's copperplate, grammatical, this letter was somehow incomprehensible to her.  Every reading seemed only to deepen the enigma.  In frustration she flung the pages down, and watched the letter slide across the polished cedar table.  And she sat there perplexed, chin in hand, drumming her fingers upon the table.

She was Audrey Farquar, the only daughter of Archibald Farquar, of Farquar Ponsford.  Audrey had just recently returned to Australia after six years abroad.  Although she had spent all that time in Europe, her existence, like that of most young ladies of her station in life, in reality had been very cloistered.

Apart from a grand excursion to Italy with her whole final year class, a little genteel skiing in the holidays, Audrey had spent the entire time at a fairly cloistered finishing school for young ladies, in Switzerland.  Not to forget that one ill-advised trip last year to Edinburgh, to visit her father's sister...

She had lost her mother very young.  One of those mysterious but all too frequent complications of child-birth, she vaguely knew.  Audrey's father, that hard fisted ruler of a far-flung commercial empire, had always been a rather remote and distant figure; kindly in his own way, generous after his own fashion, but never there for her, not close.

During Audrey’s childhood, they had lived alone, just the two of them in the rather gloomy big house, along with a succession of more or less benign housekeepers.  It was all she knew as a child, and she had made the most of it.  Audrey had never thought of herself as lonely, but she had become very self-reliant as a consequence.  Homesickness had not been something that she had entertained, in those years of absence.  Two of her good friends from Sydney Presbyterian Ladies College had accompanied her to Switzerland.  True, they had both returned home after a year, but by that time Audrey had made other friends, other connections.

Perhaps due to this slightly estranged, isolated childhood, she had grown up into a rather introverted, self-contained young lady.  But never really unhappy, no.  Audrey had never missed a close and loving family; she never had one.

She prided herself that despite this secluded and genteel upbringing, she had also developed a strong sense of self-reliance.  And now, Audrey was beginning to think, she would need it.

But now back again to this perplexing letter.  Audrey bent down to where it had slid onto the floor, smoothing it once more upon the table.  And read it again.

This fateful letter; it confirmed her disquiet, her growing suspicions, the sinister possibilities.  The implications were deeply disturbing.  Audrey almost felt that she would have been better to have let sleeping dogs lie. - Of course not! - But now she would have to confront it, deal with it.  But how?  Where to start?

The problem was, the whole horrible business had been hushed up from the start, and quite rightly suppressed.  It was unmentionable.

For this and many other reasons, Audrey felt she had nobody with whom she could consult, nobody she could really trust.

At least not here, in Sydney.  Her one deeply trusted friend, adviser and confidante was in far-away Europe; Frau Dollmaier.  - Oh how she missed Dolli! - Audrey dared not broach the subject here, in Australia, with anybody.  So the dreaded secret must remain just that: a secret.

The Firm's chief accountant had been most insistent on this point.  She had instantly and instinctively disliked Purves, hated his smarminess, what she saw as his patently insincere solicitude; she thought him a cold fish.

But Audrey had understood his concern; indeed shared it.  And had given her agreement to this secrecy.  For it seemed that her father, for the last couple of years self-exiled to an island off the coast of New Guinea, had contacted leprosy. -  God!  Her own father, a leper!  -Audrey could not get used to the horror of it all.

When Purves had first informed her of this catastrophe, she had of course written and discussed it with Frau Dollmaier.  Even the good widow Dollmaier in writing back, had counselled her to follow the chief accountant's advice.  But this letter now before her, it changed everything, put a whole new complexion to the situation.

Since first receiving the dreadful news first from Mr. Purves, Audrey had still continued to receive regular communication from her father in his remote isolation, albeit written in the hand of a company clerk.

He was mostly alright, by and large, he wrote, and resigned to his fate, but had unfortunately lost the use of his hands for fine things, such as writing, her father had informed her; so henceforth would have to have his letters written.

Surprisingly, she had from then on received more letters than ever before, often informative, affectionate in tone.  Up until then over the years, her father’s communications had been irregular, and always, fairly brief and dry.

Little did Mr. Farquar realize how his daughter had treasured them, kept every one.  Spare as these epistles had been, they were evidence for his daughter that her father did care, despite his preoccupation with business.

As she compared them now, these more recent letters were not the same.  Written in another hand, that of an impersonal clerk, they created a barrier, somehow.  She had still kept them as well, nevertheless.

And over time, as she had re-read them, Audrey had gained the feeling that as the dread disease had inexorably taken her father over, disfiguring him, he had changed in other ways, as well.  Audrey felt as if she was losing him, not just physically to the leprosy, but somehow in spirit.

Although these later letters were generally affectionate in tone, his answers to her inquiries had often seemed insincere, patronizing.  Don't worry your pretty little head about a thing, you will be well provided for, sort of letter.  He had never been like that.  And now this letter from him; unbelievable.  Audrey, a bit stung by her father's previous letter, reeking of insincerity, had set a trap.  And the trap had been sprung.

She had written her father a cheery, newsy letter, giving him her impressions of a newly rediscovered Sydney.  And at the end, reminded him of her lovely little black scotch terrier, Trixy, which he had bought for her tenth birthday.  Do you remember her daddy, Trixy?  And now this; the answer had come back that of course he did; how sad for her that the dog had died whilst she was away, and suggested she could perhaps consider getting another.

Very considerate - except that Audrey had never owned a dog; her father had always detested them.

OLIVER and DARCY

Sitting out on Bennet's skiff, feet up on the gunwales, Oliver was drowsing; fishing was by now barely a pretence from him.  Truth was he would be just content to sit here like this for hours, the magnificent harbour lying like glass, a dusty blue haze softening the distant shore line, the silence delicious.  Barely broken now, by the far faint ringing of church bells.

Although there was hardly any breeze at all, they left the sail up for some shade.  Darcy and he had earlier caught a dozen or more whiting, packed away now in a wet bag, out of the hot mid-morning sun.  So Oliver was happy now to drift along on the slight tide.  Just to be out on Sydney Harbour on such a day was enough.  There were probably lots of boats out, but out on the immensity of the harbour, they seemed to have it all to themselves.

Bennett was of course not satisfied; Oliver grinned to himself.  Darcy would stay out fishing until either the sun went down, or the boat sank under the weight of fish.  He was still busy at it, determined now to catch a small shark or two.  Darcy had already sacrificed two splendid whiting as bait to this purpose.

'I don't know, Darce, why you don't give up the drudge factory and take this up full time.  You love it.'  Oliver called to his friend.

'You miss the point, old mate,' answered Bennett with a grin. 'If I did that, what could I look forward to on the weekend, Eh?  Answer me that.'  He jerked then on his line, attention now back on the business in hand.  'Struth!  Reckon I bloody near had one then!  Wobbygong probably.'  Then sternly; 'I wish you'd shut up so I could concentrate, Oliver.'

'What bullshit, probably a blow-fish or some tiddler having a suck at your bait.  Come on Darce, admit it,' Oliver teased his friend, 'Go on, pull in your line; I bet the baits still there.'

'Yeah; reckon you're right just this once.'  Conceded Darcy, as he glanced skywards.  'Come on.'  He urged as he pulled in his line.  'Looks like a puff of wind at last.  Haul on that sheet, there's a good fellow and we'll be off like a harlot's drawers!'

The breeze did indeed pick up and they were away, slipping over the harbour, towards the long spit of Balmain.

Darcy and Oliver liked to moor down at the end of the peninsular; after fishing all morning, a cold beer in one of the pubs up on Balmain road was very welcome.

Strictly speaking, this pub was not open on Sunday, but a couple of thirsty fisherman could usually get in quietly through the back way.  Succour for distressed men of the sea, the landlord called it.  The boys thought he was a bit of a wag, Shanahan, the burly publican at the Balmain Hotel.

He claimed there was even a law about it; nobody had ever challenged this assertion. In fact one of his earliest Sunday regulars, had been young Edmund Barton the lawyer, and now a famous politician.  Barny claimed Barton had once assured him that if there was no such law, there bloody well should be.

'And now that he's in politics, I reckon it should be ratified very soon.'  Shanahan was fond of declaring.

Shanahan’s pub was a favourite haunt for the two weekend fishermen; a major part of the whole expedition.

Seated at the bar now with a brace of beers before them, with a rake of fine big whiting stowed away in the boat, the two friends believed they had earned them.

'This is the life lad, toasted Darcy, lifting his glass for the first appreciative sip.  'Makes you feel the world's your oyster, a day like this, eh?'

Oliver tsked in exasperation.  'Dammit Darcy; I forgot the oysters for mother!  She wants to make an oyster soup for Sunday supper.'  Darcy laughed, 'no problem, old son.  We'll take a detour, Slip over to Mc.Mahons Point; I know a good oyster patch where nobody can reach except by water.'  He sighed with deep satisfaction as the beer hit the right spot.  The two friends fell silent for a moment or two, communing with their beers.

Darcy turned to Oliver and before continuing.  'I've been thinking of this idea, Ollie, and I would like to run it past you; see what you think.'

'Oh so now you want my advice do you, someone with a bit of a mature outlook, perhaps?'  Oliver ribbed him.  'You told me to shut up, as I recall, when we were out fishing.'

'You are a lousy fisherman, but you are not as silly as you look,' his friend threw back.  They both laughed as Oliver punched his arm.

'Shit!  Steady on, old son!  You've spilt my beer!'  complained Darcy.  Then he became serious.  'I've been thinking we should get all of the clerks together, maybe the wharehousemen and draymen as well, for a Firm's picnic out on the harbour one time.  Get to know each other a bit, have a bit of a chat.  Take the Harbour ferry over to Manly, maybe, or somewhere.  We've never done it.  Have to be weekend of course; the Death Adder would never consider granting a day off.'  They both snorted at such a thought.

'You know how it is; we are all so head down and arse up at work, we never get to know one another.'  He looked then at Oliver with eyebrow up, as he took another pull at his beer.  'Well, what do you think?'

Darcy Bennett's works picnic idea was taken up with enthusiasm by the clerical staff at the Firm; it was decided by the committee which seemed to form out of nowhere, that they should all bring their wives and sweethearts, children as well.  This was not exactly what Darcy had envisaged, as he confided in Oliver, but he took this expansion with good grace.  Following Oliver's suggestion, the organizing committee made a formal approach to the head accountant, inviting him to attend.  As Oliver and Darcy had already agreed with each other, of course he would not come; it would nevertheless indicate that he was not excluded.

Secretly, Oliver had agonized that the others - Darcy - would think his suggestion a bit timid.  But they had agreed; they had all considered it good strategy.  Disarm the enemy, Darcy had chuckled.  But in his own heart, Oliver was not so sure.

To the astonishment of all though, Purves had donated a barrel of beer for the occasion.  This only slightly soured by the injunction to the committee, that they should now stop taking up their employer's time and get back to work.

'His miserable sodding nature couldn't, wouldn't allow him to appear generous; he had to take some of it back, 'case we thought he was getting soft.'  Was Darcy's evaluation.

CHAPTER THREE 

Singapore

Oliver was in Singapore, having tea out on the upstairs veranda at Raffles Hotel when a silent smiling waiter in white handed him the letter.  Recognizing his friend Darcy's hand-writing he opened it eagerly, only to throw it down a minute or so later, in disgust and anger.  The Death Adder has struck, as his friend put it. 

The bastard, Oliver raged inwardly, the cunning, slimy bastard!  Darcy's news, tho' couched in somewhat light comedy style, was appalling. 

Oliver's own situation had changed very rapidly from the Monday following their fishing excursion out on the harbor.  With some trepidation early that morning, he had reported to the office of the Chief Accountant as requested; no, ordered.  Such summons did not usually result in a painless interview. 

This time however, Oliver had been genuinely astounded.  But very pleased, all in all, with this interview.   

Without fuss, without giving Oliver any reason for his being chosen - that he was trusted, or he had seen to have been diligent - no, nothing of any commendation.  Only this from Mr. Purves.

Oliver was to prepare himself for a voyage by ship to Singapore.  As he had stood there speechless - Mr. Purves never offered an employee a chair - Purves had in his colourless, monotonous voice, detailed exactly what it was he wished his clerk to do in Singapore.

Banfield was to make his way to the offices of Farquar Ponsford in Singapore, to be met there by a lawyer arranged by himself - Purves that is.  There, he was to show a letter of authority, and using the keys entrusted to him by the Head Accountant, remove the entire contents of the safe in the office of the firm's Singapore representative. This he was