"Oh, I mean gum!" roared Flanagan.
No, Fortune did not possess that dubious accomplishment.
"Mighty handy when you're thirsty," Flanagan advised.
They built up the fire and sat round it cosily. They were all more or less happy, all except Fortune. So long as she had been a captive of Mahomed, she had forced the thought from her mind; but now it came back with a full measure of misery. Never, never would she return to Mentone, not even for the things that were rightfully hers. Where would she go and what would she do? She was without money, and the only thing she possessed of value was the Soudanese trinket Ryanne had forced upon her that day in the bazaars. She heard the men talking and laughing, but without sensing. No, she could not accept charity. She must fight out her battle all alone.... The child of a thief: for never would her clear mind accept smuggling as other than thieving.... Neither could she accept pity; and she stole a glance at George, as he blew clouds of smoke luxuriantly from his mouth and nose, his eyes half closed in ecstasy. How little it took to comfort a man!
Ryanne suddenly lowered his pipe and smote his thigh. "Hell!" he muttered.
"What's up?" asked George.
"I want you to look at me, Percival; I want you to take a good look at this thing I've been carrying round as a head."
"It looks all right," observed George, puzzled.