Faithful to my last strong impression there, I went straight to the tiny hotel garden, and in that darkness lay down in a delicious and torpid triumph. The attorney was most likely waiting still. No one on earth knew where I was. Pidcock could not trace me now. I could see the stars through the palms and the strange trees, the fountain made a little sound, somewhere now and then I could hear the antelope, and, cloaked in this black serenity, I lay smiling. Once an engine passed heavily, leaving the station utterly quiet again, and the next I knew it was the antelope’s rough tongue that waked me, and I found him nibbling and licking my hand. People were sitting in the latticed passage, and from the light in the office came Mr. Mowry, untying a canvas sack that he held. At this sight my truancy to discretion was over, and no head could be more wakeful or clear than mine instantly became.
“How much d’yer want this time, Mr. Jenks?” inquired Mowry.
I could not hear the statesman’s reply, but thought, while the sound of clinking came to me, how a common cause will often serve to reconcile the most bitter opponents. I did not dare go nearer to catch all their talk, and I debated a little upon my security even as it was, until my own name suddenly reached me.
“Him?” said Mowry; “that there tailor-made boy? They’ve got him sleepin’ at the Barracks.”
“Nobody but our crowd’s boarding here,” said some one.
“They think we’re laying for their witnesses,” said the voice of Jenks. And among the various mingled laughs rose distinct a big one that I knew.
“Oh, ho, ho! Well, yes. Tell you about witnesses. Here’s all there is to them: spot cash to their figure, and kissing the Book. You’ve done no work but what I told you?” he added, sharply.
“We haven’t needed to worry about witnesses in any shape, Bishop.”
“That’s good. That’s economy. That little Eastern toorist is harmless.”
“Leave him talk, Bishop. Leave ’em all tell their story.”