The Frenchman pronounced for whisky, and took it neat. Mills stared.

"If I took off a dose like that," he observed, "I should be as drunk
as an owl. You know how to shift it!"

"Eh?"

"Gimme patience," prayed the trader. "You bleat like a yowe. I said
you can take it, the drink. Savvy? Wena poosa meningi sterrik. Have
some more?"

"Oh yais," smiled the guest. "Ver' good w'isky, eh?"

He tossed off another four fingers of the liquor, and they sat down
to their meal. The food was such as most tables in Manicaland
offered. Everything was tinned, and the menu ran the gamut of edibles
from roast capon (cold) to pate de foie gras in a pot. When they had
finished Mills passed over his tobacco and sat back. He watched the
other light up and blow a white cloud, and then spoke.

"Look here, Frenchy," he said, looking at him steadily; "I don't
quite cotton to you, and I think it proper you should say a bit more
than you have said."

"Eh!" queried the other, smiling.

Mills glowered, but restrained himself. "I want to know who you are,
and I guess I mean to know too, so out with it!"