“Who the devil are you?” inquired Billy.
The stranger produced an impressive-looking document covered with seals.
“Contract with the president,” he said. “I’ve taken over your job. You better get out quiet,” he advised, “as they’ve given me a squad of nigger policemen to see that you do.”
“Are you aware that these works are the property of the Wilmot Company?” asked Billy, “and that if anything went wrong here they’d hold you responsible?” The stranger smiled complacently.
“I’ve run plants,” he said, “that make these lights look like a stable lantern on a foggy night.”
“In that case,” assented Billy, “should anything happen, you’ll know exactly what to do, and I can leave you in charge without feeling the least anxiety.”
“That’s just what you can do,” the stranger agreed heartily, “and you can’t do it too quick!” From the desk he took Billy’s favorite pipe and loaded it from Billy’s tobacco-jar. But when Billy had reached the door he called to him. “Before you go, son,” he said “you might give me a tip about this climate. I never been in the tropics. It’s kind of unhealthy, ain’t it?”
His expression was one of concern.
“If you hope to keep alive,” began Billy, “there are two things to avoid——” The stranger laughed knowingly.
“I got you!” he interrupted. “You’re going to tell me to cut out wine and women.”