“And now,” he announced as he dropped into one of the bedroom’s wicker chairs and lighted a cigarette, “we are in what you Americans would call a tight fix, Friend Trowbridge. To accede to that half-caste hellion’s proposition would be to dishonor ourselves forever—that is unthinkable. But to be eaten up by that so infernal octopus, that, too, is unthinkable. Morbleu, had I known then what I know now I should have demanded one thousand pounds a day from those Messieurs Lloyd and then refused their offer. As your so splendid soldiers were wont to say during the war, we are, of a surety, S.O.L., my friend.”
MorbleuBeneath the bamboo bedstead across the room a slight rustling sounded. I looked apathetically toward the bed, indifferent to any fresh horror which might appear; but, wretched as
