“There’s room for all of us in here,” went on Patsy, in a scarcely audible tone. “But keep quiet. If he comes back here, we’ve got to land on him. That will be all. I don’t care if he does come.”
“Hush!” warned Nick.
If there was any weakness in Patsy Garvan which had to be controlled, it was a disposition to talk too much.
The curtain at the elevator parted, and a man came through.
“Gee!” whispered Patsy. “It’s the fellow they call Keshub!”
“One of the guards,” added Nick.
Keshub was not as tall as Ched Ramar. But he was a big fellow, and he had all the dignity of the Oriental, even though he was not of as high caste as Ched Ramar was supposed to be.
He strode into the room and looked at the big idol. Then he made a deep salaam to the image, joining the tips of the fingers of his two hands over and in front of his bowed head as he bent low, and dropping them to his sides as he straightened up.
“Teaching old Brassy to swim, I guess,” grinned Patsy.
Nick gave him a hard dig in the side, to quiet him, although he found it hard to repress a smile at this irreverent designation of the god as “old Brassy.”