He stopped for a moment. Wolf had asked him not to enter Scot on the list of passengers, but then he had not asked him not to talk about it. Besides, the thing was puzzling, and Kit was curious. He narrated their getting Scot on board and sending him off with the hotel runner at Las Palmas. When he stopped he thought Austin looked thoughtful.
"Do you know Wolf?" Austin asked.
"I do not," said Kit. "I hadn't met him before. He was polite, but, of course, he knew my post."
"You mean, he reckoned you were not worth cultivating?" Jefferson remarked. "Sometimes a mail-boat's sobrecargo is a useful friend."
"I don't expect Wolf has much use for me. He's trading in North-west Africa, is he not? What does he get?"
"The Sahara's not all desert. There are oases, and wadys where water runs. The Berber tribes have goods to trade and some of the stuff that comes out of the hinterland is valuable. In fact, the caravan roads may presently go west to the Atlantic and not north to Algiers."
"What sort of fellows are the tribesmen?"
"Physically, they're magnificent; I reckon it's the proper word. Six feet tall, muscular and hard as rawhide. We don't know much about their morals, but they're fearless, proud, and distrust strangers. Anyhow, they're a pretty tough crowd to get up against."
"Have you got up against them?" Kit asked.
Jefferson smiled. "We have had disputes. I reckon you know Austin and I send the Cayman across now and then. Sometimes she brings back sheep and barley and sometimes other goods. The trouble is the Spanish crew are not keen about anchoring on the Sahara coast; they know the Moros. But the fellows are not Moors, but Berbers of a sort. The true Berber is rather short and light; these folk are big and dark."