"This day," I said, "I am perforce a zealot."
"A what?"
"A zealot—a Banana zealot. You, too, shall be a zealot. We will unite our zeal, and this day light such a candle—"
"The man's mad," she said. "Quite mad."
I explained. "You see," I said, "it's like this. Simply miles away, somewhere south south and by south of us, there are a lot of heathen. They're called Bananas. I don't know very much about it, but there seems to be a sort of understanding that we should keep them in missionaries. So every now and then the 'worker' push here get up a fete thing and take money off people. Then they find one and send him out. Well, there's one of these stunts on this afternoon, and I've been let in to do something. That's why I look so pale and interesting. The last day or two I've been desperate about it. But now..."
"Now what?"
"If you'd let me help you to-day, we could take the show to the fete and simply rake it in. It's a splendid way of winning your bet, too. Oh, booth, isn't it obvious that you've been sent?"
"It certainly would be nicer than giving performances about the village," she said musingly. "If only I knew you—"
"You don't know the fellow who isn't getting the milk," I objected.
"That's different. He'd be only a servant."