"Let me tell you, sir," again Big Ben held up his beringed hand, "I am out of the business—good! But, Mr. Sanders, sir, I have a conscience." He laid his big hand over his heart and lowered his voice. "Lately I have been worrying over this old ki-chu. I have built myself a magnificent dwelling in Boston; I have surrounded myself with the evidences and services of luxury; but there is a still small voice which penetrates the sound-proof walls of my bedroom, that intrudes upon the silences of my Turkish bath—and the voice says, 'Big Ben Hold—there aren't any ki-chu; you're a fake; you're a swindler; you're a green goods man; you're rollin' in riches secured by fraud.' Mr. Sanders, I must see a ki-chu; I must have a real ki-chu if I spend the whole of my fortune in getting it"; he dropped his voice again, "if I lose my life in the attempt."
He stared with gloom, but earnestness, at Sanders, and the Commissioner looked at him thoughtfully. And from Mr. Hold his eyes wandered to the gravelled path outside, and the big American, following his eyes, saw a discoloured patch.
"Somebody been spillin' paint?" he suggested. "I had——"
Sanders shook his head.
"That's blood," he said simply, and Mr. Hold jerked.
"I've just shot a native," said Sanders, in a conversational tone. "He was rather keen on spearing me, and I was rather keen on not being speared. So I shot him."
"Dead?"
"Not very!" replied the Commissioner. "As a matter of fact I think I just missed putting him out—there's an Eurasian doctor looking him over just now, and if you're interested, I'll let you know how he gets along."
The showman drew a long breath.
"This is a nice country," he said.