“Well, I believe that’s a Christian fact,” cried the other. “What I want is a secret, get hold of a rich man by the right place, and make him squeal.”
“I suppose you know it’s not thought to be the ticket,” returned Havens.
“I don’t care for that; it’s good enough for me,” cried the man from Glasgow, stoutly. “The only devil of it is, a fellow can never find a secret in a place like the South Seas: only in London and Paris.”
“M’Gibbon’s been reading some dime novel, I suppose,” said one club-man.
“He’s been reading ‘Aurora Floyd,’” remarked another.
“And what if I have?” cried M’Gibbon. “It’s all true. Look at the newspapers! It’s just your confounded ignorance that sets you snickering. I tell you, it’s as much a trade as underwriting, and a dashed sight more honest.”
The sudden acrimony of these remarks called Loudon (who was a man of peace) from his reserve. “It’s rather singular,” said he, “but I seem to have practised about all these means of livelihood.”
“Tit you effer find a nokket?” inquired the inarticulate German, eagerly.
“No. I have been most kinds of fool in my time,” returned Loudon, “but not the gold-digging variety. Every man has a sane spot somewhere.”
“Well, then,” suggested some one, “did you ever smuggle opium?”