The man roared with laughter. "Sorry," he said. "Please show me the way."
"Follow me, sir," said Bones.
Sanders was not "in residence," being, in fact, inspecting some recent—and native—repairs to the boilers of the Zaire.
The stranger drew up a chair on the stoep without invitation and seated himself. He looked around. Patricia Hamilton was at the far end of the stoep, reading a book. She had glanced up just long enough to note and wonder at the new arrival. "Deuced pretty girl that," said the stranger, lighting a cigar.
"I beg your pardon?" said Bones.
"I say that is a deuced pretty girl," said the stranger.
"And you're a deuced brute, dear sir," said Bones, "but hitherto I have not commented on the fact."
The man looked up quickly. "What are you here," he asked—"a clerk or something?"
Bones did not so much as flush. "Oh, no," he said sweetly. "I am an officer of Houssas—rank, lieutenant. My task is to tame the uncivilized beast an' entertain the civilized pig with a selection of music. Would you like to hear our gramophone?"
The new-comer frowned. What brilliant effort of persiflage was to follow will never be known, for at that moment came Sanders.