"You have the hand of an artist," said the ever-curious Ajax.
"The most beautiful hand I ever saw," replied Johnson imperturbably,
"belonged to a--thief. Good-night."
Ajax frowned, turning down the corners of his lips in exasperation.
"I am eaten up with curiosity," he growled.
* * * * *
Next morning we routed out an old kit-bag, into which we packed a few
necessaries. When we insisted upon Johnson accepting this, he shrugged
his shoulders and turned the palms of his hands upwards, as if to show
their emptiness.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, with a certain indescribable
peremptoriness.
Ajax answered simply--
"A man must have clean linen. In the town you are going to, a boiled
shirt is a credential. I should like to give you a letter to the
cashier of the bank. He is a Britisher, and a good fellow. You are not
strong enough for such work as we might offer you, but he will find
you a billet."
"You positively overwhelm me," said Johnson. "You must be lineally
descended from the Good Samaritan."
Ajax wrote the letter. A neighbour was driving in to town, as we knew,
and I had arranged early that morning for our guest's transportation.
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