"Not till we get there," said Tony with a yawn, at the same time measuring the distance between his man and debating whether it would be better to kill him or capture him and then take him back in the boat.
Meanwhile the Syrian was smoking airily, almost casually. He was a born scoundrel. Intrigue was his game. This Syrian had Mammon all over his body and soul. Good gold could buy him any time.
"You spy?" he said, looking up at Tony in a casual yet cunning way. The word "spy" was a dagger into the subaltern's nerves and heart. It left him breathless for a moment. Recovering his wits, he airily answered, "Well——"
"Me poor man—me tell you things. How much?"
"Fifty pounds—eh?"
"One hundreds—it worth it—good beesness. Me plenty savvy—me know."
"What?"
"Plentee news 'bout guns, men and—beeg attacks——"
"Oh!" said Tony, startled out of his casual way. The Syrian smiled. He had divined his quest.
"Tell me then."