H. Bedford-Jones

“ The room was a wriggling horror in that moment, and when Cranshaw clicked off the light that triumphant “crunch—crunch—crunch!” was rising in a finale that drowned out the rest of the symphony—and shattered suddenly at his voice.
“Better not step out on the floor, Hobson—I saw a couple of those spiders on your curtains. I’ll take my chances, but you’ll stay here. If they get under your curtains you’re gone, remember—any one of those things means certain death. As I say, I’ll take my chances, because I’m going to leave you here.” ”

“ Steamer day's a great occasion here, you know."
"I'm not fond of insects," and as Hobson reached for the siphon his eyes flitted around uneasily. "I've heard stories about these islands."
"You look apoplectic, too," mused Cranshaw. For an instant that odd, bitterly cruel light shot through his gray eyes. "Nonsense, man! That's all talk. Of course, there are a few cockroaches and such, but there's nothing dangerous. Absolutely no scorpions, and the centipeds don't kill. That's all talk. See here, I've two cots laid up in my sleeping-room—finest mosquito curtains in the island. ”

“ Cranshaw leaned over the table, his face anxious, pleading.
But behind the anxiety in his gray eyes there was a hard coldness, quickly veiled.
“I’m not threatening you, Hobson—it’s the other way around. I’m satisfied, here in Avarua; I’m the company’s agent, no one knows who I used to be, I’ve a good salary. Come, don’t bear malice! The old life is forgotten, so let the dead bury their dead. Don’t be hard on me, old man! ”