“Yes,” replied he; “just landed. . . . Thanks—may I have a lime-squash?”
“What the devil’s that?” asked the other, and both men regarded him seriously and with a kind of shocked interest. “Never heard of it.”
“Don’t think they keep it here,” put in the shorter of the two men. “How d’you make it?”
“Lemon-juice, soda-water, and sugar,” replied Bertram, and felt that he was blushing in a childish and absurd manner.
Both men shook their heads, more in sorrow than in anger. They looked at each other, as might two physicians at the bedside of one whose folly has brought him to a parlous pass.
“Quite new to Africa?” enquired the taller.
“Yes. Quite,” confessed Bertram.
“Ah! Well, let me give you a word of advice then,” continued the man. “Don’t touch dangerous drinks. Avoid all harmful liquor as you would poison. It is poison, in this climate. Drink is the curse of Africa. It makes the place the White Man’s Grave. You can’t be too careful. . . . Can you, Piggy?” he added, turning to his friend.
“Quite right, Bill,” replied “Piggy,” as he rang a little bell that stood on a neighbouring table. “Let’s have a ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktail and then some beer for a start, shall we? . . . No—can’t be too careful. . . . Look at me f’r example. Been in the country quarter of a century, an’ never exceeded once! Never tasted it, in fact.”