“I’m not that sort,” said Mills.  “I’m open to admit I didn’t quite take to you—­at first.  I can’t say fairer than that.  But tell me what you done to rile the chaps.  Did you kill a bloke, or what?”

“Jone Mills,” said the Frenchman “Jone Mills shoot the Intendente at Mandega’s.  Kill ‘im dead.  Dead as pork.  They don’ chase Jone Mills.  They don’ wan’ to shoot Jone Mills.  No.  Frenchy—­po’ ol’ Frenchy—­’e shoot a man in Macequece.  Shoot ’im dead.  Dead as pork.  Then they all coom after ‘im.  Wan’ to shoot ‘im.  An’ po’ ol’ Frenchy, ’e stop to pull Jone Mills out of the river.  ’E save Jone Mills.  Jone squeak an’ say, ‘Shoot me quick befo’ I choke.’  But Frenchy stop an’ pull ‘im out.  Yais.  An’ then they shoot Frenchy.  Yais!” He blew a huge volume of smoke and lay back serenely.

“Look ’ere, Frenchy,” cried Mills, stretching his hand across the table, “I’m in this.  They won’t catch you here, old son.  Savvy?  There’s my hand for you.”

“Eh?”

“There’s my hand, I’m tellin’ you.  Shake hands, old son.  You may be a hard case, but you did save my life, and it’s up to me to see you through.  We’ll be able to call quits then.”

The Frenchman rose with a serious face, and the two shook hands over the candle.  The Frenchman held Mills’s hand a moment longer.

“I know you,” he said.  “You do’ know me.  I trust you, Jone.  I know yo’ a good man.”

He sat back again, and Mills turned matters over.  In that rough community no man would own himself devoid of gratitude.  “I’ll do as much for you” was the common acknowledgment of a favor.  It appeared to Mills that his new acquaintance might be a precious scoundrel, but that point was not at present in issue, and there remained a debt to be satisfied before he could raise it.  The knowledge that Frenchy had shot a man did not trouble him in the least, so long as the accompanying circumstances and the motive were in accordance with the simple standards of Manicaland.  Here came in the doubt, engendered by nothing more concrete or citable than a trifle of mystery in the man’s manner, and some undefined quality that disagreed with the trader.  He glanced over to him; the Frenchman was blowing rings of smoke and smiling at them.  There was nothing in his face but innocent and boyish amusement.

“Gad, you’re a cool hand!” exclaimed Mills.  “How d’you reckon we better work it?”

“I do’ know,” replied the other indifferently.

“You don’t, eh?  Well, d’you think they’ll follow you all night?”

“I don’ think,” said the Frenchman, with confidence and a swelling of his chest—­“I don’ think they wan’ to meet me in the night.  Not ver’ naice eh?  Leetle dangerous.”

“H’m.  You’ve got a bit of an opinion of yerself, anyhow.  If that’s all right, it’ll be time enough to clear by daylight.  Did you bolt just as you are—­no niggers, no skoff, no anything?”

“No time,” was the answer.  “So I coom out-with-out everything.  Just like this.”