For some time Schnitzel glowered uncertainly at the bulkhead.
"Did you know him?" he asked.
"When I was in the legation I knew him well," I said.
"So did I," said Schnitzel. "He wasn't murdered. He murdered himself. He was wrong ten thousand dollars in his accounts. He got worrying about it and we found him outside the clearing with a hole in his head. He left a note saying he couldn't bear the disgrace. As if the company would hold a little grafting against as good a man as Curtis!"
Schnitzel coughed and pretended it was his cigarette.
"You see you don't put in nothing against him," he added savagely.
It was the first time I had seen Schnitzel show emotion, and I was moved to preach.
"Why don't you quit?" I said. "You had an A1 job as a stenographer. Why don't you go back to it?"
"Maybe, some day. But it's great being your own boss. If I was a stenographer, I wouldn't be helping you send in a report to the State Department, would I? No, this job is all right. They send you after something big, and you have the devil of a time getting it, but when you get it, you feel like you had picked a hundred-to-one shot."
The talk or the drink had elated him. His fish-like eyes bulged and shone. He cast a quick look about him. Except for ourselves, the smoking-room was empty. From below came the steady throb of the engines, and from outside the whisper of the waves and of the wind through the cordage. A barefooted sailor pattered by to the bridge. Schnitzel bent toward me, and with his hand pointed to his throat.