Harry grinned.
"Nothing. I'm an amateur, you know—that is, if you know anything about the game at all. We can't take any money for our services, so we have to charge expenses. And jolly well we're worth it—some of us," he added with conviction.
Faber nodded, as though he understood perfectly.
"I guess you deliver the goods. There's something of that sort in my country, only we don't call 'em amateurs. Anyway, the name doesn't hurt. You'll be married when you come back, I suppose?"
"Ah! there you cherchez la femme. Gabrielle isn't struck with marriage—not very much. She's full of this tomfool business about peace on earth and goodwill toward Wilhelm. It makes me sick to listen to it. The yacht loaded up with cranks, and every one of them trying to get something out of Sir Jules. It's almost as good a game as Throgmorton Street, if you can find the mugs, chiefly those with handles. I tell you, I'm just fed up with it."
"You don't get thin on it, sure. How long does Sir Jules propose to stop here? Has he said that?"
"He'll stop on the off chance of another interview with the Emperor on his return from Corfu."
"The first one wasn't satisfactory, then?"
"Oh, lots of pats on the back and that sort of thing—plenty of butter, but not much bread. By the way, do you think there's anything in the business, or is it just fancy?"
"I think there's a great deal. Sir Jules Achon is about the deepest thinker in this line I've yet struck. But he wants a man with him—he wants a hustler. Europe listens when you beat the drum, but it's got to be a mighty big drum nowadays. He's merely playing with fiddle-sticks."