He spoke with a nice discriminating care in the selection of his words, as though it were a thing in which he had a particular and consuming pride. The gunman laughed.
“You mean you had been kicked to hell out of it, and were livin’ on the country.”
There was a faint protest in the Colonel’s drawl.
“It’s true I was not sent out by any of the great sectarian missions. I adopted the work, and I was not in favor with the regular organizations in China. They resisted my endeavors.”
“I’d say they did,” his companion interrupted. “You’re the worst crook in the world barrin’ one, not so far away.” He laughed. “There’s a circular posted up in every mission in Asia givin’ your mug, and tellin’ what a damned impostor you are. Some vitriol in the descriptions of you, Colonel. I’ve seen ’em.”
The man was not disturbed. The drawl continued:
“Yes, Mr. Bow Bell,” he said; “quite true, quite true. I was not in favor with the regular organizations.”
The names which the two derelicts applied to one another they had themselves selected, inspired by the impression produced upon each other at the time of their meeting on the ship. The big man had called the gunman Mr. Bow Bell, and the gunman had named his companion Colonel Swank. They had made no further inquiry. Men of this character are not concerned about names.
Bow Bell put his fingers over his face, drawing them gently down and removing them together from the point of his chin, as though he brushed something away.
“So you crawled out of your rat hole, when the column started, to see what you could pinch. Good pickin’, eh, what?”