It's a
pleasure to meet real people--this damn country is so full of
crooks and dead-beats. No, sir, you'll stay right here where it is
cool and comfortable." With a pudgy forefinger he stripped his
purple brow of a row of glistening sweat-drops. "I'll have Zeelah
fix up a bed where this glorious breeze will play on you. Mr.
Anthony, that trade-wind blows just like that all the time--never
dies down--it's the only thing that makes life bearable here--that
and the whiskey. Have another highball?"
"No, I thank you."
"Darwin--Say, I'll send a cart for your baggage, right now."
"I have it with me--six shirts, all guilty."
"Then I'll send your father a message this minute. I'm delighted
at the privilege of being the first to advise him of your safety
and to relieve his mental anguish." Mr. Weeks rocked toward the
desk, adjusted a chair behind him, spread his legs apart, and sat
down sidewise so that he could reach the inkwell. He overhung his
chair so generously that from the front he appeared to be perched
precariously upon its edge or to be holding some one in his lap.
"Where are those cable blanks!" he cried, irritably, stirring up
the confusion in front of him.
"Here they are." Anthony picked one up from the floor.
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