Limekiller!

Sailing south you see the weird sugarloaf-shaped hills behind Spanish Bight; whereas elsewhere, some hills seem five miles away and are actually twenty-five, these hills seem to be one-and-twenty miles away, but are really only one. One mile away, that is. A curious phenomenon. They rise out of the midst of palm trees which look rather like the giant ferns of earth’s past eras; easily one may imagine dinosaurs nibbling on the tops of them. Something similar. could one call it confusion. delusion. afflicted Limekiller. He had forgotten to cross off how many days on his calendar (it advertized 30 Pure Turkish Cigarette 3o / M., Grower and Mfger rather garishly, and was generally understood to have been also of, if not the growth, then of the manufacture, also, of M.: but that was another story. Indeed.) how many days had he forgotten to cross off? he could not think how many. When had he found the trove of gold coins? had it been last night? the night before last? several nights ago? Limekiller was no longer, and perhaps had never been, from the moment Doubt entered his mind, quite sure. At all sure. And, on the other hand, if he stayed aboard his boat, he would only be driven again to count the coins, and he could see himself becoming a latter-day Silas Marner: this would not do.

If he left the boat, might not someone come aboard of her and peek and peer and probe and. Nobody ever had. Before. So he had gone, he told himself, for a Walk. And the possibilities for walking being limited, had found himself going into the hamlet called Woodcutters Cove. A hamlet it might be (might be? it was.), but it was also what foreigners sometimes called “the provincial capital”: not quite. A District was not really a province, being a Canadian Limekiller knew all about provinces, provinces had lieutenant-governors, premiers, legislative assemblies — a District had none of these. It had a District Commissioner, who was an administrative officer, the name of the District was Seville (pronounced by every man, woman, and child in British Hidalgo as Civil just exactly the same as Shakespeare pronounced it, The King is as civil as an orange, a pun which had baffled Shakespearean scholars — none of whom had ever lived in British Hidalgo — almost ever since the death of James I and V), and its capital was Woodcutters Cove. though there was talk of moving it to Seville Town, where the citrus works were, and the bitter “civil oranges” made into marmalade. But they had been talking about that at least since King Edward had abdicated, not that there was necessarily a connection.

Limekiller passed the old Anglican Church, the Parson’s Paddock, the Parsonage, and expected next to pass about a quarter of a mile of trash houses until he came to the shops and the liquor booths, and had begun to wonder at which one of the latter his credit might still be good, not at the Juno Club, not at the New Africa, not at the Bayman’s Bogue, maybe at the Little Bit of Heaven? maybe at the Hidalgo Club? when his wonders were interrupted by his being hailed from the Government Building in the following words, “Mr. Limekiller! May I give you a hail?”

Grammatically, the question was not without fault. And to reply with some such reply as, “What in the hell have you just been doing you dumb son of a bitch?” was socially contra-indicated. The man who from an office window had called to him was Percival FitzEvans Blythe; Percival FitzEvans Blythe was perhaps not very distinguished-looking, he was perhaps not very well set-up, and even perhaps he had not a very intriguing personality; but there was one thing about him which admitted of no perhaps: and Limekiller, suddenly a prey to the dismals, was well aware of what this was.

“Good afternoon, District Commissioner,” said Limekiller.