“The Bombay and Benares bank is broken.”
“It is not,” replied the other, fumbling in his pocket. “Na, na—false report. Bombay and Ta-Lien, you mean.” Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, and with ferocity: “Canna ye read?”
Leslie took the paper; it was a cablegram from Shanghai.
“False report. Bombay and Ta-Lien suspended. Bombay and Benares safe.
Jardine Matheson.”
“Good Heavens!” said Leslie. “When did you get this?”
“Hoor ago. Drive on, you—wheel me awa’.”
“Where are you going?”
“Mogi—to forget I was ever such a fule as to go into partnership with a man like—wheel me awa’!”
“Steady on, steady on,” said Leslie.
“I’ll be back the morrow morn and see y’ before you’re awa’ to Vancouver.” Then, leaning back as the riksha started: “I may be a fule, but I’m not a blind fule, and I’m not a—(hic!).”