“Oh, berry well, Busha,” said the black with a grin.
“Wait here, I’ll be out in a minute,” said Ralph Cummings. He hurried back into the unsavory interior of the place and presently issued again, supporting Jack, who was reeling and swaying from side to side and who gazed about him with a vacant expression.
It was at this moment that a dapper little man came hastening along the street.
“Good gracious, can it be possible that that is Jack Ready in such a condition?” he exclaimed. “Being led out of a low dram shop! It’s incredible! I’d not believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
He bustled up to Cummings, who was just putting Jack into the cab, where the young wireless boy collapsed, breathing heavily and rolling his eyes stupidly about.
“My friend, pardon me,” he exclaimed, addressing Cummings, “but my name is De Garros. I am a friend of this young man’s from the Tropic Queen. In fact I owe my life to him. Is he ill?”
“Ill nothing! He’s just taken a drop too much. Sea-faring men often do.”
De Garros threw up his hands in horror.
“I would never have believed it,” he cried incredulously; “yet it must be true! Ready, are you ill?”
Jack mumbled something incoherently in rejoinder. De Garros looked his disgust.