an excerpt from the beginning of the story:
They called me "consul," but I was really nothing but a consular agent here at Aru Taping, the new oil-station on the east coast of Borneo. The Dutch Oil Company, one of the largest in the world, was exploiting it at a cost of millions.
Half a mile back from the bay lay the refineries and half-erected buildings of the boom town. Here were gathered all sorts of men--some recruited in Holland at the end of the war, others, drifters from Australasia and the south seas. They were a hard lot, a tough lot, a hard-drinking, godless lot.
To get away from it all, I used to go down to the beautiful, unsullied shore of the bay--a wide strip of white sand below the cliffs. But I had been at Aru Taping five weeks before I went down there for a walk at night; and that night I made an amazing discovery.
I was strolling along the white sand, smoking and watching the stars and the phosphorescent curlings of the waves, when far ahead I made out a strange black blotch against the sand. A few red sparks showed that men were there, smoking. As I stood, a figure uprose ahead of me, and in some alarm I recognized a ruffianly Australian contractor who was doing some of the concrete work on the new tanks and piers.
"Good night to ye," said he, peering at me. "Oh! It's the American consul, hey?"
I felt thankful for the automatic in my pocket. "What's going on down here?" I demanded. "A Bolshevik meeting?"
To my surprise the Australian chuckled. "Ye might call it so," he responded, and then made a remark which took me all aback.
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