CHAPTER XIII
In which there is intrigue right and left and in the middle and down the spine, and in which, furthermore, the iron enters the buffalo's soul.
“It's agreed, eh?” Mr. Preserved Higgins asked the stranger. “You're on, wot? Cop the gal, cop the swag, cop the 'ole plurry country—and then a bit o' signed pyper givin' me the right to …”
“Yes, yes.” The stranger, alias The Honorable Tollemache Wade, inclined his head. “As soon as I am—oh—what d'you call it?”
“Ameer of Tamerlanistan,” gently suggested Bansi.
“Thanks, old chap. As soon as I am Ameer, I shall give you the 'concession' you want. That was our agreement.”
“Right-oh!” Mr. Preserved Higgins smiled into his curly, russet-colored beard. “And you won't regret it, nor will Tamerlanistan. I ain't tryin' to deny that I'm goin' to myke a stiff bit o' the ready on my investment. But—live and let live is my motto, and I tells you the country ain't goin' to lose. Them Tamerlanis are goin' to 'ave so much tin, Rolls-Royces are goin' to be as plentiful 'ereabouts as vultures are now. I'm goin' to play fair, sonny, see?”
And Mr. Preserved Higgins meant it. For he was characterized by a peculiar honesty in dishonesty.
