The Australian raised his eyebrows.
“Firewater,” I murmured.
“Swell,” grinned James.
We put the plan into execution at once, halting at the first arrack-shop beyond the monastery to show the detective our appreciation of his services. By eight bells he was the most jovial man in Rangoon; by noon he felt in duty bound to slap on the back every European we encountered. Luckily, good cheer sells cheaply in Burma, or the project would have made a serious inroad on our fortune of seven rupees.
We halted, well on in the afternoon, at an eating house hard by the Chinese temple. The Eurasian, alleging lack of appetite, ignored the plate of food that was set before him.
“See here, Pearson,” I suggested, “you’ve been sticking close to us for a long time. The government should be proud of you. But I should think, after three days, you’d like to get a glimpse of your wife and the kids.”
“Yesh, yesh,” cried the half-breed, starting up with a whoop, “I’m close to ’ome ’ere. I’ll run round a minute. Don’t mind, old fel, eh? I’ll be back fore you’re ’alf through,” and he stumbled off up the street.
Once he was out of sight, we left our dinner unfinished, and hurried back to the Home. The manager was sleeping. We laid hold on the knapsack that we had left in his keeping and struck off through the crowded native town.
“This is no good,” protested James. “All the streets leading east are guarded.”
“The railroad to Mandalay isn’t,” I replied. “We’ll run up the line out of danger, and strike out from there.”