’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. There was a very substantial profit in the transaction, for he paid the natives in commodities—coloured cotton cloths, pipes and tobacco, guns and ammunition, household utensils, cutlery and glass gewgaws. "Well, how goes it?" he asked. Love lives on a higher plane. Good riddance. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. Then he rallied, smiling a little. Come along home, Ruth. ‘No, Melusine.
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