"Prob'ly Mowbray is making a try for that Quilqua business," concluded Jack sagely. "It sounds mighty good to me, old boy?"
"Here too," agreed Charlie. "But Selim laid it on too thick, with sea serpents and elephants like mountains. Bet a dollar to a pine chip that he had some axe to grind with the General. You wait and see."
"Mebbe," conceded Jack doubtfully. "He's a slick-lookin' proposition, Chuck. I saw the lines of a gun in his coat pocket, too. He didn't do much grinding, anyhow. The General didn't fall for his line of talk worth a cent. Well, let's get back; it's almost time for lunch—or what do they call it here? Tiff 'em?"
"Tiffin," chuckled his friend; "same's they do in India. There's a heap of Indians all down the coast, 'cause it's a Mohammedan country an' they don't lose caste by coming over to work."
All of which explanation was largely lost on Jack. Charlie knew a good deal of the East Indians, having witnessed most of the Hindu immigrant riots in western Canada, and he was frankly interested in them as a race.
When they returned to the after awning they found Selim just saying good-bye. He was to leave the ship at Ras al Kyle, a port on the Italian Somaliland coast, and they were nearly due to reach there. So he suavely bowed himself away, in odd contrast to his Boer-like appearance, and the boys immediately deluged the General with questions. Dr. von Hofe rumbled out a laugh.
"Would you prefer my absence, General? I—"
"Nonsense, Doctor!" broke in Schoverling sharply. "Here is all I know," and he told the big German of meeting Mowbray, and of the latter's words.
"So!" drawled von Hofe. "Then, this Selim ben Amoud is who?"
"I have heard that he is the wealthiest Arab on the east coast," replied the American. "You noticed, I suppose, what he first said?"