Sargon made a gesture that effectually concealed his own lack of a definite plan, and led the way.
“Lead on, Macbeth,” said the organ-grinder, and swung his hurdy-gurdy into its carrying position on his back. The two other ex-soldiers exchanged views that it was all right and that anyhow they’d see what was offered them. Mr. Godley, keeping abreast of his leader, began an immense and ultimately futile struggle with a fresh question.
The next disciple was not so much called as fell into the gathering body of Sargonites. He was a tall gentleman of a rich brown colour with frizzy black hair, and a vast disarming smile. He was dressed in an almost luminous grey frock-suit, a pink tie, buttoned shoes with bright yellow uppers, and a hat as distinguished as Sargon’s own. He carried a grey alpaca umbrella. He held out a sheet of paper in a big mahogany hand and emitted in a rich abundant voice the word “Escuse.” The paper had printed on it at the head the words, “Lean and Mackay, 329 Leadenhall Street, E.C.” and below written in ink, “Mr. Kama Mobamba.”
Sargon regarded his interlocutor for a moment and then recognized him. “The Elamite King!” he said.
“Non spik English,” said the black gentleman. “Portugaish.”
“No,” said Sargon with a gesture that explained his intention. “Providence. Follow after me.”
The coloured gentleman fell in trustfully.
“Look here!” protested one of the ex-soldiers. “There ain’t going to be coloured labor on this job?”
“Peace!” said Sargon. “Very soon everything will be shown to you.”
“I don’t think you have any ub-ub-business to mislead ap-ap-people,” said Mr. Godley, who was becoming more and more interested in, and perplexed by, Sargon’s proceedings.