“And only language is adorned?”
Durnovo laughed. He had to be alert to keep up with Jack Meredith—to understand his speech; and he rather liked the necessity, which was a change after the tropic indolence in which he had moved.
“Swearing, you mean,” he replied. “Hope you don’t mind it?”
“Not a bit. Do it myself.”
At this moment Joseph, the servant, brought coffee served up in tin cups.
“First-class dinner,” said Durnovo. “The best dinner I have had for years. Clever chap, your man!”
The last remark was made as much for the servant’s edification as for the master’s, and it was accompanied by an inviting smile directed towards Joseph. Of this the man took no notice whatever. He came from a world where masters and masters’ guests know their place and keep it, even after a good dinner.
The evening had turned out so very differently from what he had expected that Durnovo was a little off his balance. Things were so sociable and pleasant in comparison with the habitual loneliness of his life. The fire crackled so cheerily, the moon shone down on the river so grandly, the subdued chatter of the boatmen imparted such a feeling of safety and comfort to the scene, that he gave way to that impulse of expansiveness which ever lurks in West Indian blood.
“I say,” he said, “when you told me that you wanted to make money, were you in earnest?”
“In the deadliest earnest,” replied Jack Meredith, in the half-mocking tone which he never wholly learnt to lay aside.
“Then I think I can put you in the way of it. Oh, I know it seems a bit premature—not known you long enough, and all that. But in this country we don’t hold much by the formalities. I like you. I liked the look of you when you got out of that boat—so damned cool and self-possessed. You’re the right sort, Mr. Meredith.”
“Possibly—for some things. For sitting about and smoking first-class cigars and thinking second-class thoughts I am exactly the right sort. But for making money, for hard work and steady work, I am afraid, Mr. Durnovo, that I am distinctly the wrong sort.”
“Now you’re chaffing again. Do you always chaff?”
“Mostly; it lubricates things, doesn’t it?”
There was a little pause. Durnovo looked round as if to make sure that Joseph and the boatmen were out of earshot.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked suddenly.
Jack Meredith turned and looked at the questioner with a smile. His hat had slipped to the back of his head, the light of the great yellow moon fell full upon his clean-cut, sphinx-like face. The eyes alone seemed living.
“Yes! I can do that.”
He was only amused, and the words were spoken half-mockingly; but his face said more than his lips. It said that even in chaff this was no vain boast that he was uttering. Even before he had set foot on African soil he had been asked to keep so many secrets of a commercial nature. So many had begun by imparting half a secret, to pass on in due course to the statement that only money was required, say, a thousand pounds. And, in the meantime, twenty-five would be very useful, and, if not that, well, ten shillings. Jack Meredith had met all that before.
But there was something different about Durnovo. He was not suitably got up. Your barroom prospective millionaire is usually a jolly fellow, quite prepared to quench any man’s thirst for liquor or information so long as credit and credulity will last. There was nothing jolly or sanguine about Durnovo. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat his dark eyes flashed in a fierce excitement. His hand was unsteady. He had allowed the excellent cigar to go out. The man was full of quinine and fever, in deadly earnest.
“I can see you’re a gentleman,” he said; “I’ll trust you. I want a man to join me in making a fortune. I have got my hand on it at last. But I’m afraid of this country. I’m getting shaky; look at that hand. I’ve been looking for it too long. I take you into my confidence, the first comer, you’ll think. But there are not many men like you in this country, and I’m beastly afraid of dying. I’m in a damned funk. I want to get out of this for a bit, but I dare not leave until I set things going.”
“Take your time,” said Meredith, quietly and soothingly; “light that cigar again and lie down. There is no hurry.”
Durnovo obeyed him meekly.
“Tell me,” he said, “have you ever heard of Simiacine?”
“I cannot say that I have,” replied Jack. “What is it for, brown boots or spasms?”
“It is a drug, the most expensive drug in the market. And they must have it, they cannot do without it, and they cannot find a substitute. It is the leaf of a shrub, and your hatful is worth a thousand pounds.”
“Where is it to be found?” asked Jack Meredith. “I should like some—in a sack.”
“Ah, you may laugh now, but you won’t when you hear all about it. The scientific chaps called it Simiacine, because of an old African legend which, like all those things, has a grain of truth in it. The legend is, that the monkeys first found out the properties of the leaf, and it is because they live on it that they are so strong. Do you know that a gorilla’s arm is not half so thick as yours, and yet he would take you and snap your backbone across his knee; he would bend a gun-barrel as you would bend a cane, merely by the turn of his wrist. That is Simiacine. He can hang on to a tree with one leg and tackle a leopard with his bare hands—that’s Simiacine. At home, in England and in Germany, they are only just beginning to find out its properties; it seems that it can bring a man back to life when he is more than half dead. There is no knowing
