"His Lordship hopes, sir," The older Englishman indicated a stock of books, pamphlets and official reports piled upon the table. "His Lordship would be pleased, sir, if you see fit to examine these reports on our cotton-planting experiments in Nigeria, Uganda and Egypt. Then, sir, you might advise our Honorable Board of Governors more intelligently on the affairs of our new syndicate in the Sudan."
Both the Britishers stepped back while Colonel Spottiswoode ran through the documents. "I've read most of these," he said. "Your trouble seems to be lack of water, and the inefficient labor. I never saw an irrigated cotton-field—we have too much water, overflow, you know; our levees break. And nobody can understand a labor problem until he gets on the ground. That's why you long-distance planters go broke."
"Yes, sir," agreed the Englishmen; "our Honorable Board of Governors are a jolly good bit away from their plantations. But you will set all that to rights, sir."
Zack stood in the middle of the sitting-room, holding his grip-sack and pasting down the edges of a hotel label. "Huh!" he muttered. "Dat Irish feller at de eatin' house didn't want to paste nary tag on my grip-sack; huh!"
"Zack," remarked the Colonel; "there's your room; walk in and hang up your hat."
