"No, siree," added Colonel Spottiswoode; "that cotton is worth thirty-two cents in Alexandria, and I figure it cost us about thirty-two dollars a pound to produce."
"Doesn't matter, sir, doesn't matter—it can be produced. That's all we desire to know."
Lyttleton, the experienced Dervish fighter, had noticed something else and he smiled grimly, "Did you observe how briskly those Shilluks moved? They have just learned how their king punished the native who tried to burn our gin."
"What was that?"
"I thought McDonald had told you. Within ten minutes after our escort carried him before the king, he was a dead Shilluk. Old Quat Kare wants to keep the presents that he gets out of this job. Poor devil! We ought to have dealt with him ourselves."
"Well," remarked the Colonel; "if that gin had burned, I should have gone home on this boat."
Old Reliable poked his startled face around the Colonel's elbow: "What dat you say, Cunnel? Ain't us gwine home on dis boat?"
"No. We must stay until the next lot of cotton can be ginned up. I brought the seed from home, and I want to see how it turns out."
"How long is dat gwine to take, Cunnel?" Zack's tongue felt dry.
