“You're going far, then, in the Pied Witch, Zack?”
“I am,” said Zachary.
“And where might yu be goin' in that old trampin' smut factory?”
“Morocco.”
“Heu!” said the old man, “there's nothing there; I know that coast, as I know the back o' my hand.” He stretched out a hand covered with veins and hair.
Zachary began suddenly to pour out a flood of words:
“Below Mogador—a fellow there—friend of mine—two years ago now. Concessions—trade-gunpowder—cruisers—feuds—money— chiefs—Gatling guns—Sultan—rifles—rebellion—gold.” He detailed a reckless, sordid, bold scheme, which, on the pivot of a trading venture, was intended to spin a whole wheel of political convulsions.
“They'll never let you get there,” said old Pearse.
“Won't they?” returned Zachary. “Oh yes, they will, an' when I leave, there'll be another dynasty, and I'll be a rich man.”
“Yu'll never leave,” answered the old man.