"Hang it, your hands are steadier than mine!"
"You go back home?"
"Yes. Something like home. I am going to Paris, where good people go when they die. I am going to drink vintage wines, eat truffles and mushrooms and caviar, and kiss the pretty girls in Maxim's. I've been in prison for ten years. I am free, free!" Warrington flung out his arms. "Good-by, jungles, deserts, hell-heat and thirsty winds! Good-by, crusts and rags and hunger! I am going to live."
"The Sahib has fever," observed the unimaginative Eurasian.
"That's the word; fever. I am burning up. Here; go to the boat and give the purser these six sovereigns. Here are three more. Go to the Strand and get a bottle of champagne, and bring some ice. Buy a box of the best cigars, and hurry back. Then put this junk in the trunk. And damn the smell of kerosene!"
James raised his hand warningly. From the adjoining room came the sound of a quarrel.
"Rupees one hundred and forty, and I want it now, you sneak!"
"But I told you I couldn't square up until the first of the month."
"You had no business to play poker, then, if you knew you couldn't settle."
"Who asked me to play?" shrilled the other. "You did. Well, I haven't got the money."