“In the first place, Mala,” broke in Phillips sternly, “you know that in Joyalita the speech is English——”
“Ah! Yes!” interrupted Mala, with an apologetic upward sweep of his palms. “I am stupid. I am a mule.”
“A jackass, I should say,” remarked Patsy, in an inaudible tone. “I don’t like that guy.”
“In the next place,” went on Phillips, disregarding all interruptions, “you will set forth the best of everything you have, with some good wine in a sealed bottle. Understand?”
“I will open the wine for his highness,” protested Mala. “He must not have the trouble——”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” snapped Phillips. “I’ll open the bottle. Bring it sealed, or I will not take it from you.”
Mala shrugged his shoulders, and pointed to a large open room, in which three lamps, illuminated with American kerosene, were burning. The room had several fairly comfortable chairs, including two rockers and a sofa, with a large mahogany table in the center. It was a curious combination of American civilization and mountain savagery.
Nick Carter saw that Chick and Patsy were looking after the car, putting it under the cover of a tumble-down old shack.
Then he turned toward the room into which the bowing Mala was anxious to usher him.
Nick sat down near a wide-open window, which commanded the road, while Mala went to look after the preparations for supper and to get the sealed bottle of wine for which Phillips had so urgently stipulated.