"The U. S. Consul says he's better worth a visit than most of the
world's museums," Yerkes assured us two or three times. "He says
Tippoo Tib's a fine old sport--damned rogue--slave-hunter, but white
somewhere near the middle. What's the harm in our having a chin with
him?"

But Monty was adamant.

"A call on him would prove nothing, but he and his friends would
suspect. Spies would inform the German government. No. Let's act as
if Tippoo Tib were out of mind."

We grumbled, but we yielded. Hassan came again, shiny with sweat and
voluble with offers of information and assistance.

"Where you gentlemen going?" he kept asking.

"England," said Monty, and showed his own steamer ticket in proof of
it.
That settled Hassan for the time but Georges Coutlass was not so easy.
He came swaggering upstairs and thumped on Monty's door with the air of
a bearer of king's messages.

"What do you intend to do?" he asked. (We were all sitting on Monty's
bed, and it was Yerkes who opened the door.)

"Do you an injury," said Yerkes, "unless you take your foot away!" The
Greek had placed it deftly to keep the door open pending his
convenience.