"Cards," snorted Venning, in disgust.

"So! Queer sort of partition this;" and Compton moved the mat aside.
"No need for doors, you see. Hulloa! Who are you?"

"Me Zanzibar boy, master," exclaimed a soft, oily voice.

"Then clear out."

"Me put here watch my master--see black fellows no steal."

"Oh, I see. Chuck a cake of tobacco, Venning. Here! You like that?"

"Ver good," said the boy, reaching out a yellow hand for the
tobacco.

Venning crossed over and peered into the other room. "You boy," he
said, "tell me, what will they do to Muata?"

The Zanzibari chuckled. "You want know, eh?"

"We don't care. One black fellow does not matter," said Compton,
coolly.

"You brute!" muttered Venning, but stopped as Compton's hand gripped
him.

The Zanzibari chuckled again. "What you give, eh, if cut loose that
Muata?"