“So Joe has fallen for that game, has he? Well, they say that every man has his price. No doubt Joe’s price was high, but they found out what it was and bought him.”
Of course he had denied it, but he knew how people smiled when they read denials. And months must pass before he could get back to America and try to hunt out the author or authors of the story.
He tried to hide his mood under a cover of light talk and banter, but the others felt it and sympathized with him, though all refrained from mentioning what each of them was thinking.
All through the day his gloom persisted, and when night came and he had retired to the room 211 that he and Jim occupied together he felt that it would be impossible for him to sleep.
“There’s no use talking,” said Jim with a yawn, as he set his cane so that it rested against the footboard and threw off his coat preparing to undress, “sight-seeing’s the most tiring work there is. I feel more done up to-night than if I had been pitching in a hard game.”
“I’m tired too,” agreed Joe, “but I don’t feel the least bit like sleep.”
Jim was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. But Joe tossed about restlessly for what seemed to him to be hours. The night was very warm and all the windows were open to get what breath of air might be stirring.
A broad veranda ran all around the building, not more than two feet below the windows, and from the ground to the veranda rose a luxuriant tangle of vines and flowers.
The moon was at the full and its light flooded a part of the room, leaving the rest in deep shadow.
Joe at last dropped off into a doze from which he woke with a start.