“Haven’t heard a word,” replied the Irishman; “but I knew they’d flag you. How did it turn out?”
I related my experiences with the temple priests.
“It’s an old game out here,” mused Askins. “In the good old days, whenever one of the boys went broke, it was get converted. Not all played out yet either. There’s a bunch of one-time beachcombers scattered among the Burmese monasteries. An old pal of mine wears the yellow up in Nepal. No graft about him, though. He’s a firm believer.
“Now and then a down-and-outer, especially over Bombay side, turns Mohammedan. But most of ’em don’t take to the surgical operation, and the cross-legged one remains the favorite. Of course, there’s always the missionaries, too, but there’s not much in it for a white man to turn Christian. There was good money in the Mohammedan game before it was worked out. There’s a little yet. Of course, you know you won’t get a red by tying up with the rice-bowlers, but it’s a job for life—if you behave.”
“Huh! Yank,” roared the Swede, peering at me through the smoke, “you get burn some, eh, playin’ mit der monkeys in der jungle? Pretty soon you ban sunstroke. Here, I make you trade.”
He pointed to the tropical helmet on the table before him.
“You’re on,” I responded.
“He ban good hat,” said Ole, proudly; “I get him last week from der Swede consul. Min he too damn big. What you give?”
For answer I tossed my cap across the table.
“Nah!” protested the Scandinavian, “I sell him for tventy cents or I take der cap an’ vun coat.”