City of Spades Read Online Free Page B

big coloured jewel.
    ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘I think these are questions that you don’t ask on so early an acquaintance.’
    Which was true, so I smiled at him and handed him over the weed for his turn to take his drag on it.
    He did this, and after some time in silence he blew on the smouldering end of the weed and said to me, ‘And what is it, Fortune, I can do for you here?’
    ‘I’m Dorothy’s half-half-brother.’
    ‘What say?’
    ‘Arthur, her brother, is my brother too.’ And I explained.
    ‘But Dorothy she not know you,’ he said to me. ‘Never she’s spoken to me about you.’
    Then I explained some more.
    ‘If that old lady or her sister’s worried about Dorothy,’ he said at last, ‘just tell them to stop worrying because she’s happy here with me, and will do just what I tell her.’
    ‘Could I speak with her, perhaps?’
    ‘No, man. You could not.’
    At this state of our interview, the door was opened and into the room came a short little fattish boy, all smiles and gesticulation, of a type that beats my time: that is, the Spade who’s always acting Spadish, so as to make the Jumbles think we’re more cool crazy than we are, but usually for some darker purpose to deceive them. But why play this game of his with me?
    ‘Hullo, hullo, man,’ he cried to me, grasping at both my hands. ‘I ain’t seen you around before … Shake hands with me, my name is Mr Ronson Lighter.’ And he let off his silly sambo laugh.
    I said, ‘What say?’ unsmilingly, and freed my hands. ‘What say, Mr Ronson Lighter. Did your own mother give you that peculiar name?’
    He giggled like a crazy girl.
    ‘No, no, no, mister, is my London name, on account of my well-known strong desire to own these things.’
    And out of each side coat pocket he took a lighter, and sparkled the pair of them underneath my eyes.
    Still not smiling, I got up on my feet.
    And as I did – smack! Up in my head I got a very powerful kick from that hot weed which I’d been smoking. A kick like you get from superior Congo stuff, that takes your brain and wraps it up and throws it all away, and yet leaves your thoughts inside it sharp and clear: that makes all your legs and arms and body seem like if jet propelled without any tiring effort whatsoever.
    But I watched these two, Billy Whispers and this Mr Ronson Lighter, as they talked in their barbarian Gambian language. I didn’t understand no word, but sometimes I heard the name of ‘Dorothy’.
    So I broke in.
    ‘I’d like to speak to her, Billy, just a moment, if you really wouldn’t mind.’
    They both looked up, and this Mr Ronson Lighter came dancing across and laid his hand upon my head.
    ‘Mister,’ he said, ‘that’s a real Bushman hair-style that you’ve got. Right out of the Africa jungle.’
    ‘You got any suggestions for improving it?’ I said, not moving much.
    ‘Why, yes. Why don’t you have it beautifully cut like mine?’
    His own was brushed flat and low across his forehead, sticking out far in front of his eyes as if it was a cap that he had on.
    ‘I’ll tell you of my own personal hairdresser,’ he said. ‘The only man in town who cuts our fine hair quite properly. He’ll take off your Bushman’s head-dress,’ and he messed up my hair again.
    ‘But possibly your hair’s so elegant because you wear a wig,’ I said to him. And taking two handfuls of his hair, I lifted him one foot off the floor.
    He yelled, and in came Jimmy Cannibal, making a sandwich of me between the two of them.
    ‘Mr Whispers,’ I said, easing out as best I could, ‘I don’t like familiarity from strangers. Can you tell that, please, to these two countrymen of yours?’
    Billy was smiling for the first time. He had some broad gaps between all his short teeth, I saw, and pale blue gums.
    I was planning perhaps to leap out through the window when the door opened yet once more, and there stood a girl that by her body’s shape and looks was quite likely to be Muriel’s