“He told us just now that he dislikes Tippoo Tib,” I objected.

“So he does, but that makes no difference.  Tippoo Tib is a big chief—­sultani kubwa—­take any one he fancies to Heaven with him!”

We all looked at Juma with a new respect.

“I got Juma his job in here,” said the doctor.  “I’ve rather the notion of getting my ten per cent. on the value of that ivory some day!”

“Are there any people after it just now?” asked Monty.

“I don’t know, I’m sure.  There was a German named Schillingschen, who spent a month in Zanzibar and talked a lot with Tippoo Tib.  The old rascal might tell his secret to any one he thought was England’s really dangerous enemy.  Schillingschen crossed over to British East if I remember rightly.  He might be on the track of it.”

“Tell us more about Schillingschen,” said Monty.

“He’s one of those orientalists, who profess to know more about Islam than Christianity—­more about Africa and Arabia than Europe—­more about the occult than what’s in the open.  A man with a shovel beard—­stout—­thick-set—­talks Kiswahili and Arabic and half a dozen other languages better than the natives do themselves.  Has money—­outfit like a prince’s—­everything imaginable—­Rifles—­microscopes—­cigars—­wine.  He didn’t make himself agreeable here—­except to the Arabs.  Didn’t call at the Residency.  Some of us asked him to dinner one evening, but he pleaded a headache.  We were glad, because afterward we saw him eat at the hotel—­has ways of using his fingers at table, picked up I suppose from the people he has lived among.”

“Are you nearly ready to let us out of here?” asked Monty.

“Your quarantine’s up,” said the doctor.  “I’m only waiting for word from the office.”

We drank three rounds of cocktails with him, after which he grew darkly friendly and proposed we should all set out together in search of the hoard.

“I’ve no money,” he assured us.  “Nothing but a knowledge of the natives and a priceless thirst.  I’d have to throw up my practise here.  Of course I’d need some sort of guarantee from you chaps.”

The proposal falling flat, be gathered the nearly empty bottles into one place and shouted for his boy to come and carry them away.

“Think it over!” he urged as he got up to leave us.  “You might take a bigger fool than me with you.  You’d need a doctor on a trip like that.  I’m an expert on some of these tropical diseases.  Think it over!”

“Fred!” said Monty, as soon as the doctor had left the room, “I’m tempted by this ivory of yours.”

But Fred, in the new blue dressing-gown the doctor had brought, was in another world—­a land of trope and key and metaphor.  For the last ten minutes he had kept a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper working, and now the strident tones of his too long neglected concertina stirred the heavy air and shocked the birds outside to silence.  The instrument was wheezy, for in addition to the sacrilege the port authorities had done by way of disinfection, the bellows had been wetted when Fred plunged from the sinking Bundesrath and swam.  But he is not what you could call particular, as long as a good loud noise comes forth that can be jerked and broken into anything resembling tune.