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any more than a tramp on the roads. He ain't got to keep time. The governor got like this once in a one-horse Mexican pueblo on the uplands, away from everywhere. He lay all day long in a dark room 5 * “Drunk?” This word escaped Schomberg by inadvertence, at which he became frightened. But the devoted secretary seemed to find it natural. “No, that never comes on together with this kind of fit. He just lay there full length on a mat, while a ragged, bare-legged boy that he had picked up in the street sat in the patio, between two oleanders near the open door of his room, strumming on a guitar and singing tristes to him from morning to night. You know tristes —twang, twang, twang, aouh, hoo! Chroo, yah!” Schomberg uplifted his hands in distress. This tribute seemed to flatter Ricardo. His mouth twitched grimly. “Like that—enough to give colic to an ostrich, eh? Awful. Well, there was a cook there who loved me— an old fat, negro woman with spectacles. I used to hide in the kitchen and turn her to, to make me dulces— sweet things, you know, mostly eggs and sugar—to pass the time away. I am like a kid for sweet things. And, by the way, why don’t you ever have a pudding at your tablydott, Mr. Schomberg? Nothing but fruit, morning, noon, and night. Sickening! What do you think a fellow is—a wasp?” Schomberg disregarded the injured tone. “And how long did that fit, as you call it, last?” he asked anxiously. “Weeks, months, years, centuries, it seemed to me,” returned Mr. Ricardo with feeling. “Of an evening the governor would stroll out into the sala and fritter his life away playing cards with the juez of the place—a little Dago with a pair of black whiskers—ekarty, you know, a quick French game, for small change. And the comandante, a one-eyed, half-Indian, flat-nosed ruffian and I, we had to stand around and bet on their hands. It was awful!” “Awful,” echoed Schomberg, in a Teutonic throaty tone of despair. “Look here, I need your rooms.” “To be sure. I have been thinking that for some time past,” said Ricardo indifferently. “I was mad when I listened to you. This must end!” “I think you are mad yet,” said Ricardo, not even unfolding his arms or shifting his attitude an inch. He lowered his voice to add: “And if I thought you had been to the police, I would tell Pedro to catch you round the waist and break your fat neck by jerking your head backward—snap! I saw him do it to a big buck nigger who was flourishing a razor in front of the governor. It can be done. You hear a low crack, that's all—and the man drops down like a limp rag.” Not even Ricardo's head, slightly inclined on the left shoulder, had moved; but when he ceased the greenish irises which had been staring out of doors glided into the corners of his eyes nearest to Schomberg and stayed there with a coyly voluptuous expression.
SCHOMBERG felt desperation, that lamentable substitute for courage, ooze out of him. It was not so much the threat of death as the weirdly circumstantial manner of its declaration which affected him. A mere “I’ll murder you,” however ferocious in tone and earnest in purpose, he could have faced; but before this novel mode of speech and procedure, his imagination being very sensitive to the unusual, he collapsed as if indeed his moral neck had been broken—snap!
“Go to the police? Of course not. Never dreamed of it. Too late now. I’ve let myself be mixed up in this. You got my consent while I wasn't myself. I explained it to you at the time.”
Ricardo's eyes glided gently off Schomberg to stare far away. “Ay! Some trouble with a girl. But that's nothing to “Naturally. What I say is, what's the good of all that savage talk to me?” A bright argument occurred to him. “It's out of proportion; for even if I were fool enough to go to the police now, there's nothing serious to complain about. It would only mean deportation for you. They would put you on board the first westbound steamer to Singapore.” He had become animated. “Out of this to the devil,” he added between his teeth for his own private satisfaction.
Ricardo made no comment, and gave no sign of hav. ing heard a single word. This discouraged Schomberg, who had looked up hopefully.
“Why do you want to stick here?” he cried. “It can't pay you people to fool around like this. Didn't you worry just now about moving your governor? Well, the police would move him for you; and from Singapore you can go on to the east coast of Africa.” “I’ll be hanged if the fellow isn't up to that silly trick!” was Ricardo's comment, spoken in an ominous tone which recalled Schomberg to the realities of his position. “No! No!” he protested. “It’s a manner of speaking. Of course I wouldn't.” “I think that trouble about the girl has really muddled Jour brains, Mr. Schomberg. Believe me, you had better part friends with us; for, deportation or no deportation, you'll be seeing one of us turning up before long to pay you off for any nasty dodge you may be hatching in that fat head of yours.” “Gott im Himmell” groaned Schomberg. “Will nothing move him out? Will he stop here immer—I mean always? Suppose I were to make it worth your while, couldn't you 3 * “No,” Ricardo interrupted. “I couldn't, unless I had something to lever him out with. I’ve told you that before.” “An inducement?” muttered Schomberg. “Ay. The east coast of Africa isn't good enough. He told me the other day that it will have to wait till he is ready for it; and he may not be ready for a long time, because the east coast can’t run away, and no one is likely to run off with it.” These remarks, whether considered as truisms or as depicting Mr. Jones's mental state, were distinctly discouraging to the long-suffering Schomberg; but there is truth in the well-known saying that places the darkest hour before the dawn. The sound of words, apart from the context, has its power; and these two words, “run off,” had a special affinity to the hotel-keeper's haunting idea. It was always present in his brain, and now it came forward evoked by a purely fortuitous expression. No, nobody could run off with a continent; but Heyst had run off with the girl! * Ricardo could have had no conception of the caus of Schomberg’s changed expression. Yet it was noticeable enough to interest him so much that he stopped the careless swinging of his leg and said, looking at the hotel-keeper: “There's not much use arguing against that sort of talk—is there?” Schomberg was not listening. “I could put you on another track,” he said slowly, and stopped, as if suddenly choked by an unholy emotion of intense eagerness combined with fear of failure. Ricardo waited, attentive, yet not without a certain contempt. “On the track of a man!” Schomberg uttered convulsively, and paused again, consulting his rage and his conscience. “The man in the moon, eh?” suggested Ricardo, in a jeering murmur. Schomberg shook his head. “It would be nearly as safe to rook him as if he were the man in the moon. You go and try. It isn't so very far.” He reflected. These men were thieves and murderers as well as gamblers. Their fitness for purposes of vengeance was appallingly complete. But he preferred not to think of it in detail. He put it to himself summarily that he would be paying Heyst out and would, at the same time, relieve himself of these men's oppression. He had only to let loose his natural gift for talking scandalously about his fellow creatures. And in this case his great practice in it was assisted by hate, which, like love, has an eloquence of its own. With the utmost ease he