“So,” said Reichtbaum, “that is accomplished. And now, gentlemen, what will you have to drink?”
“Highball for me,” said Harman, “if it’s all the same to you. What’s yours, Bud?”
“Same as yours,” said Davis, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and then these worthies sat whilst Reichtbaum went into the bar and returned with a syphon of soda and a whisky bottle and then went out again and returned with three glasses, and then fishing a cigar-box from a shelf, handed out cigars.
The syphon whizzed and the fumes of tobacco rose.
Two highballs vanished, and nearly half an hour of precious time sped with conversation, ranging from the German Emperor to the morals of the ladies of Laut.
Then Davis turned to reality. “S’pose we get on with this business of the dope,” said he. “Three thousand dollars it was, Mr. Keller was saying—and we ought to be going.”
He rose from his chair.
“To be sure,” said Reichtbaum, rising also. “Three thousand dollars vas agreed. Now for der dope.”
He took a clasp-knife from his pocket, knelt down and cut the rope binding the tarpaulin, rooted it open, put in his hand and produced a tin of bully beef. He flung the tarpaulin wide and tins tumbled out on the floor, canned tomatoes mostly—there was a large stock of them on the Haliotis. Bud and Billy, petrified with amazement as Reichtbaum himself, stood without a word, till Harman found speech.
“Boys, we’re done,” cried Harman. “Fried and dished by Keller.” He turned, made for the door and rushed through the bar on to the veranda.