“Hang the German consul! No!” cried Kinross. “I do it myself, because I was wrong—because you were good to me that time I was sick, and lent me the hundred dollars and the trade.”
“And you want noding?” asked Engelbert, still incredulous.
“I want to shake your hand and be friends again, old man,” said Kinross, “same as we used to be when we played dominoes every night, and you’d tell me about the Austrian War, and how the Prince divided his cigars with you when you were wounded.”
The German looked away. “Oh, Kinross,” he said, with a shining look in his eyes, “you make me much ashamed.” He turned suddenly round and wrung the Englishman’s hand in an iron grasp. “I, too, was dam fool.”
“A friend is worth more than seven breadfruits,” said Kinross.
“It wass not breadfruid: it wass brincible,” said the German. “Poof! de drees dey are noding; here it wass I wass hurted,” and he laid a heavy paw against his breast. “Ho, Malia, de beer!”
His strapping native wife appeared with bottles and mugs; at the sight of their guest she could scarcely conceal her surprise.
“Prosit!” said Engelbert, touching glasses.
“You know dem six agers of de Pasgoe estate,” he said, looking very hard at his companion. “Very nice leetle place, very sheap, yoost behind your store?”
Kinross nodded, but his face fell in spite of himself.