"Isn't that wonderful?" she whispered.
Bones peered up at the birds, shading his eyes.
"Just like a jolly old patchwork quilt," he said. "What a pity they can't talk till you teach 'em! They're awful bad eatin', too, though some fellers say they make a good curry——"
"Oh, look, look!"
The Wiggle was swerving to the southern bank of the river, and two majestic flamingos standing at the water's edge had arrested the girl's attention.
"They're bad eatin', too," said the informative Bones. "The flesh is fishy an' too fat; heron are just the same."
"Haven't you a soul, Bones?" she asked severely.
"A soul, dear ma'am?" Bones asked, in astonishment. "Why, that's my specialty!"
It was a delightful morning for the girl, for Bones had retired to his cabin at her earnest request, and was struggling with the company accounts, and she was left to enjoy the splendour of the day, to watch the iron-red waters piling up against the Wiggle's bows, to feel the cool breezes that swept down from the far-away mountains, and all this without being under the necessity of making conversation with Bones.
That gentleman had a no less profitable morning, for Ali Abid was a methodical and clerkly man, and unearthed the missing thirty-nine dollars in the Compensation Record.