"Interested, Fred. I'm interested. Let's--"

"Let's find that ivory and to hell with caution! Why, man alive, it's
the chance of a million lifetimes!"

"Well, then," said Monty, "admitting the story's true for the sake of
argument, how do you propose to get on the track of the secret?"

"Get on it? I am on it! Didn't One-eye say Tippoo Tib is alive and in
Zanzibar? The old rascal! Many a slave he's done to death! Many a
man be's tortured! I propose we catch Tippoo Tib, hide him, and pull
out his toe-nails one by one until be blows the gaff!"

(To hear Fred talk when there is nothing to do but talk a stranger
might arrive at many false conclusions.)

"If there's any truth in the story at all," said Monty, "government
will have done everything within the bounds of decency to coax the
facts from Tippoo Tib. I suspect we'd have to take our chance and
simply hunt. But let's hear Juma's story."

So the old attendant left off sprinkling water from a yellow jar, and
came and stood before us. Fred's proposal of tweaking toe-nails would
not have been practical in his case, for he had none left. His black
legs, visible because he had tucked his one long garment up about his
waist, were a mass of scars. He was lean, angular, yet peculiarly
straight considering his years. As he stood before us he let his
shirt-like garment drop, and the change from scarecrow to deferential
servant was instantaneous. He was so wrinkled, and the wrinkles were