“Humph! Nothing in his pockets; nothing sewn in the seams of his clothes, nor in the band of his trousers,” muttered the searcher. Then aloud: “Now then, hold up!”
Anson behaved like a horse, or, as West and Ingleborough afterwards laughingly said, like an ass, lifting to order each foot in turn for the bottoms of his trousers to be examined and the heels of his boots, which had not been bored nor plugged.
“He has nothing upon him, gentlemen,” said the officer, at last.
“But you have not thoroughly searched him,” said one of the directors, frowning.
“Oh yes, sir,” replied the officer; “a party like this wouldn’t carry diamonds about him same as a Kaffir would. He wouldn’t play any tricks with his person by slitting or swallowing: he knows too much about the risks. You can be perfectly satisfied that he has nothing about him. I was, as soon as I had turned out his pockets.”
“They’ll be satisfied before they’ve done,” sneered Anson.
“I should like to see his desk and stool in the office where he has worked, gentlemen,” continued the officer.
“Yah!” snarled Anson. “Yes: go on; search everywhere. Perhaps you’d like to search the place where I lodge?”
“Afterwards,” said the officer quietly.