to Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13 they were instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?”
“I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in Princes or Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good chance again.”
“You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot of mythical gold.”
“And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!”
Anthony got up and lit a cigarette.
“I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned, and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?”
“What do you say to a quarter?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?”
“That’s it.”
“Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, you won’t die in your bed counting up your bank balance.”
“Anyway, it’s a deal?”
“It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.”
They drank the toast solemnly.
8
