“What is that to me?” demanded the Swiss, raising his own voice. “Or to you either? After all, Senhor Magin, are you the Emperor of Elam?”
The Brazilian laughed.
“Not yet! And naturally it’s nothing to you, when you cash him cheques and sell him tinned cows and quinine. But for a man who perpetually sighs after Europe, Herr Ganz, and for a Swiss of the North, you strike me as betraying a singular lack of sensibility to certain larger interests of your race. However—What concerns me is that you should have confided to this young man, with such a roll of sentimental eyes as I can imagine, that Dizful is still ‘unspoiled’! If Dizful is unspoiled, he might spoil it. I’ve found some very nice things up there, you know. I was even fool enough to show him one or two.”
“Bah! He likes to play tennis and shoot! You know these English boys.”
Magin considered those English boys in silence for a moment.
“Yes, I know them. This one told me he liked a bit of a lark! I know myself what a lark it is to navigate the Ab-i-Diz, at the end of July! But what is most curious about these English boys is that when they go out for a bit of a lark they come home with Egypt or India in their pocket. Have you noticed that, Ganz? That’s their idea of a bit of a lark. And with it all they are still children. What can one do with such people? A bit of a lark! Well, you will perhaps make me a little annoyance, Mr. Adolf Ganz, by sending your English boy up to Dizful to have a bit of a lark. However, he’ll either give himself a sunstroke or get himself bitten in two by a shark. He asked me about the channel, and I had an inspiration. I told him he would have no trouble. So he’ll go full speed and we shall see what we shall see. Do you sell coffins, Mr. Ganz, in addition to all your other valuable merchandise?”
“Naturally, Mr. Magin,” replied the Swiss. “Do you need one? But you haven’t explained to me yet why you give me the pain of saying good-bye to you a second time.”
“Partly, Mr. Ganz, because I am tired of sleeping in an oven, and partly because I—the Father of Swords has asked me to run up to Bala Bala before I leave. But principally because I need a case or two more of your excellent vin de champagne—manufactured out of Persian petroleum, the water of the Karun, the nameless abominations of Shustar, and the ever effervescing impudence of the Swiss Republic!”
“What can I do?” smiled the flattered author of this concoction. “I have to use what I can get, in this God-forsaken place.”
“And I suppose you will end by getting a million, eh?”