. . . But it's not detracting from his character to say that he
can't tell mahogany from walnut with his finger-tips in the dark--as
_you_ could, boss. If it's a holiday you want, with a trifle of high
cabinet-science thrown in, what about taking his place?"
"It's the loveliest stuff," said Farrell, rapt, fingering the wood
delicately.
"Well, now, that makes me feel good, having my old master's word for
it, that taught me all I know. Look at it sideways and catch the
tints under the light. 'Opaline mahogany' we'll call it.
Come down-town with me, and I'll show you the baulk of it. It don't
grow big. . . . What about cash?"
"I've a plenty for the present," Farrell assured him. "Clearing's my
only difficulty."
"You trust to me, and I'll oblige," said his old employee.
Farrell went back to his hotel that evening, paid his bill and walked
out with his grip. At Renton's warehouse in the lower town he
changed his dress for a workman's; was conveyed to the Quay by
Renton, who shipped him aboard the lime-tramp. She carried him down
to Puerto Limon; where the skipper took a holiday, and the pair
struck farther down the coast on mule-back for a hundred miles or so,
and then inland for the Mosquito village hard by which they were to
find the grove of this mysterious purple hardwood.
Pages:
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289