“Not a bit. It’s just something that’s got to be done to help a lady.”
“Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love affairs.”
“It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall have to have another drink.”
His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.
“It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a dago there whose life I had saved—”
“If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled ‘Lives I have Saved.’ This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the dago out of the river. Like all dagos, he couldn’t swim.”
“Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?”
“Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro though.”
Anthony nodded indifferently.
“Any name’s good enough for a dago,” he remarked. “Get on with the good work, James.”
“Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a dog. About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last thing, just as he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some excited jargon about a secret—a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved an oilskin