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Only the taunting justice of Wutzler's argument, the retort ad hominem, had sent him headlong into this dangerous folly. He had scolded a coward with hasty words, and been forced to follow where they led. To this loathsome hole. Behind him, a door closed, a bar scraped softly into place. Before him, as he groped in rage and self-reproach, rose a vault of solid plaster, narrow as a chimney.
The wrinkled face was Wutzler's, but his weazened body was lost in the glossy black folds of a native jacket, and below the patched trousers, his bare ankles and coolie-sandals of straw moved uneasily, as though trying to hide behind each other. "Kom in," said this hybrid, with a nervous cackle. "I thought you are thiefs. Kom in."
Sharp cords and flaccid folds in Wutzler's neck, Chantel's brown cheeks, the point of Heywood's resolute chin, shone wet and polished in the lamplight. All four men scowled pugnaciously, even the pale Nesbit, who was winning. Bad temper filled the air, as palpable as the heat and stink of the burning oil.
I am sure Doctor Chantel will agree with me." "Ah, indeed," said the man in military blue, with a courtier's bow. Both air and accent were French. "Most welcome." "Let's all have a drink," cried Heywood. Despite his many glasses at dinner, he spoke with the alacrity of a new idea. "O Boy, whiskey Ho-lan suey, fai di!" Away bounded the boy marker like a tennis-ball. "Hello, Wutzler's off already!"
Wutzler's head dropped on his breast again. The varnished hat gleamed softly in the darkness. "I I dare not stay," he sobbed. "Oh, exactly!" Heywood flung out an impatient arm. "The date, man! The day they set. You came away without it! We sit tight, then, and wait in ignorance." The droll, withered face, suddenly raised, shone with great tears that streaked the mangrove stain.
"Eng-lish speak I ver' badt," he whispered; and then with something between gasp and chuckle, "but der pak-wa goot, no? When der live dependt, zo can mann " He caught his breath, and trembled in a strong seizure. "Good?" whispered Heywood, staring. "Why, man, it's wonderful! You are a coolie" Wutzler's conical wicker-hat ducked as from a blow. "I beg your pardon. I mean, you're "
We arrived at Wutzler's Royal Hotel in the late afternoon, and felt gladdened by the comfort and good cheer that awaited us, a hopeful sign inasmuch as the morrow was Christmas Day. A drive to Wingfield Park and a visit to an exquisite tomb mosque ended the sight-seeing day.
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