"Interesting? That's not the word. It's Hell. I wouldn't care to take on that job, not even to oblige my poor old mother who died fifty years ago. Ever been to Trinidad, Mr. Richards? Or you, Mr. White? Or anybody? What, has nobody been to Trinidad? You ought to travel more, gentlemen. How about you, Mr. Samuel?"
"Never further West than the Marble Arch. But a friend of mine kept a ranch somewhere down there. One day he shot a skunk. Yes, Mr. White, a skunk."
"A skunk? I'm blowed. What on earth ever for did he do that? What did he want with a skunk? I thought they were protected by law to keep down rattlesnakes. That's so, isn't it, Charlie?"
"Snakes. You should see them in Trinidad. Snakes. Great Scot! It's a queer place, is Trinidad. All angles and things—"
"I don't think one can talk about a place being all angles and things, unless—"
"Tell me, Charlie, what did the fellow on the ranch want to do with that rattlesnake?"
"Couldn't say, my son. Maybe he thought of sending it to his mother. Or perhaps he didn't want the skunk to get hold of its tail: see?"
"I see."
"They're very sensitive about their tails. As ticklish as any young girl, I'm told."
"As bad as all that, are they?"