"Lord, no!" said the other. "White men die out there. It's just trees and niggers and wild beasts and fevers." He looked at the mate with a touch of amusement breaking through his curiosity. "You weren't thinking of goin' there in that kit were you?"
The mate finished his drink and set his glass down.
"I am goin' there," he answered.
"But look here!" The telegraphists broke into a clamor. "You've been too long in the sun; that's what's the matter with you. You can't go up there, man; you'd be dead before morning."
The tall man, to whom the mate had spoken first, had a shrewd word to add. "If it's any little thing like murder, dontcher know, why the border's just a few hours up the line."
"Murder!" exclaimed the mate, and uttered a bark of laughter.
They were possibly a little afraid of him. He had the physique of a fighter and the presence of a man accustomed to exercise a crude authority. Their protests and warnings died down; and, after all, a man's life and death are very much his own concern in those regions.
"D'you think he's mad?" one of them was whispering when the mate turned to Hop Sing again.
"Set up the drinks for them," he commanded. "I'll not wait meself, but here's the money."
"You not dlink?" asked the Chinaman, as the mate laid the coins on the counter.