"Why, Mosey, there
isn't a mangy cannibal left in the whole of New Guinea that hasn't got a
cup and saucer of your providing. You've flooded the market, savee?"
Jorgenson stood by, a skeleton at the gaming table.
"Because you are a Dutch spy," he said, suddenly, in an awful tone.
The agent of the Sphinx mark jumped up in a sudden fury.
"Vat? Vat? Shentlemens, you all know me!" Not a muscle moved in
the faces around. "Know me," he stammered with wet lips. "Vat, funf
year--berfegtly acquaint--grockery--Verfluchte sponsher. Ich? Spy. Vat
for spy? Vordamte English pedlars!"
The door slammed. "Is that so?" asked a New England voice. "Why don't
you let daylight into him?"
"Oh, we can't do that here," murmured one of the players. "Your deal,
Trench, let us get on."
"Can't you?" drawled the New England voice. "You law-abiding,
get-a-summons, act-of--parliament lot of sons of Belial--can't you?
Now, look a-here, these Colt pistols I am selling--" He took the pearler
aside and could be heard talking earnestly in the corner. "See--you
load--and--see?" There were rapid clicks. "Simple, isn't it? And if
any trouble--say with your divers"--_click, click, click_--"Through and
through--like a sieve--warranted to cure the worst kind of cussedness
in any nigger. Yes, siree! A case of twenty-four or single specimens--as
you like.
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