“Oh, that’s admitted,” laughed the secret agent. “Why, he can’t go to his castle at Corfu for a week—as he does each spring—without some wonderful relic of Greek antiquity being unearthed in his presence. It is whispered that they sow them there in winter, just as the brave Belgians sow the bullets on the battlefield of Waterloo. To-day we are assuredly living on the edge of a volcano,” Jerningham went on. “When the eruption takes place—and who knows when it will—then, at that hour, the red-tape must be burst asunder, the veil torn aside, and the bitter truth faced—the bubble of British bombast will, I fear, be pricked.”
“You are always such a confounded pessimist, my dear Jack,” laughed Waldron.
“Ah, Hubert, I’m a pessimist because I am always on the move from capital to capital and I learn things as I go,” was Jerningham’s quick reply. “You fellows at the Embassies sit down and have a jolly good time at balls, dinners, tea-fights, and gala performances. Why? Because you’re paid for your job—paid to remain ignorant. I’m paid to learn. There’s the little difference.”
“I admit, my dear fellow, that without your service we should be altogether a back number. To your department is due the credit of knowing what is going on in the enemy’s camps.”
“I should think so. I don’t pay out ten thousand a year, more or less, without getting to know something, I can tell you.”
Chapter Eight.
The Great Ghelardi.
While Waldron and his friend were discussing matters, shouts suddenly arose everywhere—the golden pig had entered and was being touched for luck by everyone, and men raised their glasses to each other, to wish one another “A Happy New Year.” The Christian year had opened, but the Egyptians in fezes only smiled and acknowledged the compliment. Their year had not yet commenced.