"I am eaten up with curiosity," he growled.
* * * * *
Next morning we routed out an old kit-bag, into which we packed a few necessaries. When we insisted upon Johnson accepting this, he shrugged his shoulders and turned the palms of his hands upwards, as if to show their emptiness.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, with a certain indescribable peremptoriness.
Ajax answered simply--
"A man must have clean linen. In the town you are going to, a boiled shirt is a credential. I should like to give you a letter to the cashier of the bank. He is a Britisher, and a good fellow. You are not strong enough for such work as we might offer you, but he will find you a billet."
"You positively overwhelm me," said Johnson. "You must be lineally descended from the Good Samaritan."
Ajax wrote the letter. A neighbour was driving in to town, as we knew, and I had arranged early that morning for our guest's transportation.
"And what am I to do in return for these favours?" Johnson demanded.
"Let us hear from you," said my brother.