The Mongol, upon receiving this word, sprang from the furs like a jack from his box and hot words rushed rapidly from his lips.
When he had finished, the interpreter explained that he said Johnny was jesting with him. It was impossible that anyone would buy three hundred head of cattle with gold in the starving land of Russia.
The Mongol sank back to his place among the furs, and the bickering was continued. For two hours it waged, ending finally by the promise of the Mongol that, in the morning, the cattle should be at hand; that they would be better than those Johnny had seen; and that Johnny’s “beggarly” price of one pound of gold for six cattle would be accepted.
Once the bargaining was over, the Mongol was transformed in a second’s time into the most charming of hosts. Johnny and his interpreter must dine with him. Yes, indeed! They must sleep in his tent that night. They should talk long and of many things. It was not often that he had the honor of playing host to such a rich and clever guest. Indeed, it was not. But they should not converse so long together that Johnny and his most excellent interpreter should be robbed of their night’s repose.
Several hours later, Johnny was buried to the point of smothering beneath rugs of fur that would bring the price of a king’s ransom. His mind was still in a whirl. Perhaps it was the tea, perhaps the excitement of big business, and again, it may have been a premonition of things to happen. Whatever it may have been, he could not sleep.
His racing mind whispered to him of treachery out of the night. It had been a wonderful evening. They had been treated to a feast such as he had seldom dreamed of. Surely these Mongols could concoct from beef, rice, sweet potatoes and spices the most wonderful of viands. And, as for tea, he had never tasted real tea before. The aroma of it still haunted his nostrils.
And the Mongol had told him many things. He had traveled far, had this trader; he had seen much. He spoke of Russia, of China, Japan and India. He told of matters that made Johnny’s blood run cold, of deeds done in that border-land between great countries, each seething with revolution and bloodshed. Not that he, the Mongolian, had done these things, but he had seen them accomplished. And he had traded for the spoils, the spoils of rich Russians driven from their own land and seeking refuge in another. He was a trader. It was his business. He must have profit. What should one do? If he did not take the riches, another would. But as for committing these deeds himself, Confucius forbid it; he had scowled to show his disapproval.
At the same time, as Johnny thought it all through, and felt the hard lumps about him that were sacks of gold, he found it very difficult to fall asleep.
His interpreter, lying not an arm’s length away, breathed with the steady ease of one in deep slumber. The Mongol had drawn a curtain of ermine skins between them and his own bed. Could it be that this interpreter had made his way into the good graces of Mazie only to turn murderer and robber at the proper time? Johnny had only Mazie’s word that the person could be trusted, and Mazie was but a girl, not accustomed to the deep-seated treachery in the oriental mind.
He had traveled far that day; he had talked long and dined well; he was a healthy human being; and sleep came at last.