“Hidol!” sagely returned Mr. Tridge, with an explanatory wave of his glass. “What they says their prayers to. Sort of—sort of marscutt, you know. You know, if you ’ad a marscutt and you lost it, ’ow everything ’ud seem to go wrong for you? Not that it’s brought me much luck.”
“Perhaps these niggers you spoke of was at the back of it?” suggested Mr. Sinnett.
“Maybe,” said Mr. Tridge, with sublime carelessness. “There was always a nigger around whenever things went wrong, anyway. But I’m a British seaman, I am, and I don’t take no notice of niggers. See? And I’m surprised as you should, either!”
“I—I wasn’t thinking,” apologized Mr. Sinnett. “But tell me—do you think perhaps the idol is valuable?”
Mr. Tridge noisily laughed the notion to scorn.
“You ought to see it!” he cried. “Just a figger of fun made of brass, with bits of green glass for eyes.”
Mr. Sinnett sat vigilantly upright.
“Oh, but are you sure they are glass?” he asked.
“Why, what else could they be?” returned Mr. Tridge.
“They—they might—” began Mr. Sinnett, and then checked himself. “Er—quite so,” he ended, belatedly. “What else could they be?”