“The Kaffirs, seemingly,” said Ingleborough coolly? and he smiled in Anson’s disconsolate face.
“But it’s wicked,” cried Anson, “downright wicked for a man to cut himself like that for the sake of a bit of glittering glass. I say, mustn’t it hurt very much?”
“Can’t say,” said West merrily. “Try!”
“What, me?” cried Anson, looking startled and involuntarily thrusting his hands down to touch the parts in question. “Oh no! It’s horrible what people will do for the sake of gain.”
“Quite sure you wouldn’t like to try, Mr Anson?” said the searcher. “I’ll do it for you if you like. Only wants a very sharp knife and a good hard pinch to numb the muscle; then it’s done in a few minutes—one good cut, the stone pressed in, and the cold surface makes the skin contract.”
Anson’s face seemed to curdle up, and two creases formed, one round each corner of his mouth, as if putting it between parentheses, as he shook his head.
“Look here,” he said, “what’s the good of bantering so? Are you going to search any more men?”
“No,” said the official; “that’s the lot.”
“But are you going to punish them?”
“Oh yes! They’ll have to take their dose for it, sir; you may be sure of that. We’re going to be more and more severe over this illicit-diamond-dealing.”