don't you go back to it?"

"Maybe, some day. But it's great being your own boss. If I was a
stenographer, I wouldn't be helping you send in a report to the State
Department, would I? No, this job is all right. They send you after
something big, and you have the devil of a time getting it, but when you
get it, you feel like you had picked a hundred-to-one shot."

The talk or the drink had elated him. His fish-like eyes bulged and
shone. He cast a quick look about him. Except for ourselves, the
smoking-room was empty. From below came the steady throb of the engines,
and from outside the whisper of the waves and of the wind through the
cordage. A barefooted sailor pattered by to the bridge. Schnitzel bent
toward me, and with his hand pointed to his throat.

"I've got papers on me that's worth a million to a certain party," he
whispered. "You understand, my notes in cipher."

He scowled with intense mystery.

"I keep 'em in an oiled-silk bag, tied around my neck with a string.
And here," he added hastily, patting his hip, as though to forestall any
attack I might make upon his person, "I carry my automatic. It shoots
nine bullets in five seconds. They got to be quick to catch me."

"Well, if you have either of those things on you," I said testily, "I
don't want to know it. How often have I told you not to talk and drink
at the same time?"

"Ah, go on," laughed Schnitzel. "That's an old gag, warning a fellow not