Rutile grinned and laid down his papers. “Help yourselves, fellows!” he said. “Maybe Caesar knows your tastes better than I do. Prosit!” He lifted his stein and gulped the liquid. “Now, Risdon,” he went on, “You may confide your troubles to Uncle Sam. What’s troubling the special commissioner of the New York Gazette to his Imperial Majesty Wilhelm and the other crowned heads of Europe, Asia, and Africa?”
An expression of disgust came over the correspondent’s face. “Don’t be funny,” he said, severely. “If you think staggering under that tom-fool appellation is any joke you’re mistaken. Say! Rutile! What do you think of that fellow Ouro Preto, anyhow? Reveal your inmost soul—not necessarily for publication, but as an evidence of good sense. Speak the truth. There are no ladies present, so you needn’t restrain yourself.”
Rutile stretched out his legs and grinned. “I don’t like Ouro Preto much myself,” he answered; “but plenty of others do. What’s he done to you?”
“It isn’t what he’s done; its what he is! He’s always making up to me—God knows what for. I don’t like him.”
“Natural antipathy, eh! Ouro Preto is a half German, half Brazilian count, Topham, who’s spending the winter in Berlin and who’s trod on Risdon’s toes somehow. Probably refused to admit the right of the American press to pry into his inmost concerns.”
“Refused, nothing!” shouted the reporter. “It’s my business to read men, and it ought to be yours, Rutile, if you were with your salt. We’re all as God made us, if not worse. But I give you fair warning to watch out for Ouro Preto. He’ll do you dirt if he gets the chance.”
Rutile did not laugh, though he looked as though he would much have liked doing so. The correspondent’s rhodomontade did not seem to impress him greatly. “And the villain still pursued her,” he remarked, casually.
“Oh! all right. Go your own way. Only don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m not the only one who thinks so. If it wasn’t for his sister he’d be kicked out mucho pronto! Say! Topham! You never met his sister, did you?”
Topham shook his head but did not speak.
“Well! You don’t want to! Not if you’ve got a girl back home and want to remember her. The countess catches all sorts and every sort. She’s the prettiest, wittiest, beautifulest—”