“Yet you made money there?”
“Oh, yes. Why else should one go to such a filthy swamp?”
“Do you mean to say that the natives of a fever-laden district are physically up to the standard of the fellow we collared last night?”
“No; he comes from the highlands, where the country is altogether different. But the money is made at the ports and trading stations.”
“Any sport?”
“Very little, the bush is too dense.”
“Then why do the blacks want gas-pipe guns and coal-dust gunpowder?” asked Minkie, who was making a jam sandwich.
“To shoot the whites,” replied Schwartz. “So you see it would be bad for our health if the traders gave them good weapons and ammunition.”
“That explains it,” said Minkie.
“Explains what, dear?” inquired Mam, and Schwartz squirmed a bit until Minkie said: