"We have his stores and his papers," said I. "We have his Baganda; and as time goes on, and his other spies begin to come in, we shall have them, too, if we're half careful. Why don't we let him go, to tell his own tale wherever he likes?"
"Maybe he'll die yet!" said the optimist on the camp-bed, blowing more cigarette smoke.
"Suppose he doesn't. We've done our best to keep him alive. He's quit bleeding. Suppose we let him go, and he lays a charge against us. Suppose they send after us and bring us in. We've his diary and his men—evidence enough," said I.
"You bally ass!" Fred murmured.
"Cuckoo!" laughed Will.
"I don't believe he'd dare approach a British official with his story," said I.
"Incredible imbecile!" Fred answered. "He has the gall of a brass monkey."
"And magnetism—loads of it," Will added. "He'd make the Pope play three-card monte."
"To say nothing," continued Fred, "of the necessity of not letting the government know we're here! Rather than turn him loose, I'd march him into Kisumu and hand him over. But, as Will says wisely, our proconsuls would believe him, and put us under bonds for outraging a distinguished foreigner."
"Well, then," said I, "what the devil shall we do with him? Offer something constructive, you two solons!"