Hank, always flitting from New York into the unknown and back again, had called at the studio one evening, after a long absence, looking sick and tired. He was one of those lean, wiry men whom it is unusual to see in this condition, and Kirk was sympathetic and inquisitive.
Hank needed no pressing. He was full of his story.
“I’ve been in Colombia,” he said. “I got back on a fruit-steamer this morning. Do you know anything of Colombia?”
Kirk reflected.
“Only that there’s generally a revolution there,” he said.
“There wasn’t anything of that kind this trip, except in my interior.” Hank pulled thoughtfully at his pipe. The odour of his remarkable brand of tobacco filled the studio. “I’ve had a Hades of a time,” he said simply.
Kirk looked at him curiously. Hank was in a singularly chastened mood to-night.
“What took you there?”
“Gold.”
“Gold? Mining?”