"There's trouble" he began when he had filled his pipe. "You boys are in trouble. What is it?" he asked, shifting and twitching in his seat—refusing an armchair—refusing a drink.
"Tell us first what's the matter with you," said Fred.
"Oh, nothing. An old wound. A lion once dragged me by this shoulder half a mile or so. At this time of year I get pains. They last a day or two, then pass—Go on, tell me!"
He never sat really still once that whole evening, yet never once complained or made a gesture of impatience.
"I propose," said Fred, with a glance at Yerkes and me, "to tell
Courtney everything without reserve."
The little old hunter nodded, watching us with bright blue eyes. I received the impression that he knew more secrets than he could tell should he talk down all the years that might be left him. He was the sort of man in whom nearly every one confides.
"We're after Tippoo Tib's ivory!" said Fred, plunging into the middle of things. "Monty has gone to drive a bargain with the King of Belgium. Do you think it's a wild goose chase?"
Courtney chuckled. "No," he said. "I wouldn't call it that. They've been killing elephants in Africa ever since the flood. Ivory must have accumulated. It's somewhere. Some of it must be so old and well seasoned as to be practically priceless, unless rats have spoiled it. Rats play old Harry with ivory, you know."
"Have you a notion where it is?" demanded Fred.
Courtney laughed. "Behold me leaving the country!" he said.
"If I knew I'd look. If I saw I'd take!"