“Not so bad as that, perhaps,” I said. “Still, we’re well out of it. I wasn’t afraid of the New Guinea lot; in the first place, they mostly wouldn’t know a double-brilliant-cut Cullinan if they found it in their soup—they’re gold diggers and no more—and in the second place, they wouldn’t have turned dog on us—at least, none of them that I know. But this ‘rush’ crowd gets me altogether; it’s the worst lot we’ve ever had in New Guinea. Do you think you could travel tomorrow?”
“I don’t know if I can, but assuredly I will,” said the Marquis cheerfully. And so it was settled.
The next morning my companion woke me up very early, complaining of headache. He was, as I have mentioned, extremely temperate, and the small amount of bad whisky he had taken for politeness’ sake while looking on at the auction the day before had been quite enough to upset him. I told him that he had better go across to the bar and get himself some soda water; Burchell would not be up, but he could get the keys and help himself. Then I turned over for another sleep.
I had hardly dozed off when the Marquis came back, looking strangely pale in the yellow sunrise light.
“Flint, get up!” he said. “Come out to me.”
He certainly looked unlike himself; I wondered if he were going to be ill. Slipping on some clothes, I followed him out into the clearing, where the black oozy soil sank down under our feet after the night’s fierce rain and the pools were sending out unwholesome steam in the growing warmth of day.
“What’s to pay now?” I said.
The Marquis looked all round and then replied in a cautious half-whisper:
“Flint, God of my Gods, he has engraved all the glass!”
“Who has engraved what glass? Are you crazy?” I asked. “Did you get that soda water? This place is fairly soaking in whisky; seems it’s you now.”