“The same cursed Englishman,” he said.
Quite unconscious of the fact that his master was cursing the very man whom Jose had most recently cursed, the little man smiled sympathetically.
“I also have a hatred of the English,” he said. “With what insolence do they treat one!”
For some time M. Brigot sat in silence, but presently he wiped his mouth on his napkin, tossed down a tumbler of red wine, and crooked his finger at his companion, inviting closer attention.
“In a day, or perhaps two, I shall send you back to Tangier,” he said.
“The theatre?” began Jose.
“The theatre—bah!” exclaimed the other scornfully. “A donkey-driver could look after the theatre! It is the mine!”
“The mine?” repeated the other in some astonishment.
So long had it been since a spade had been put to the ground, so long had those hopes of Brigot’s been apparently dead, that the very word “mine” had ceased to be employed when referring to the property.
“My Englishman will buy it,” said Brigot confidently. “I happen to know that he has taken up property in the neighbourhood, and he has already made me an offer. But such an offer! He shall pay my price, Jose,” he said, nodding as he picked his teeth, “and it will be a big price, because it is desirable that I should have money.”