�hen? Good, good. Sir Hitchcock, to present my distinguished colleague Boot of the London Beast." Sir Jocelyn was always cordial to fellow journalists, however obscure. "Drink up," he said. "And have another. Sending much?" "Nothing," said William, "nothing seems to happen." "Why aren't you with the bunch? You're missing a grand trip. Mind you I don't know they'll get much of a story at Laku. Shouldn't be surprised if they found the place empty already. But it's a grand trip. Scenery, you know, and wild life. What are you drinking, Eriksen?" "Olafsen. Thank you, some grenadine. That absinthe is very dangerous. It was so I killed my grandfather." "You killed your grandfather, Erik?" "Yes, did you not know? I thought it was well known. I was very young at the time and had taken a lot of sixty per cent. It was with a chopper." "May we know, sir," asked Sir Jocelyn sceptically, "how old you were when this thing happened?" "Just seventeen. It was my birthday; that is why I had so much drunk. So I came to live in Jacksonburg and now I drink this." He raised, without relish, his glass of crimson syrup. "Poor man," said K�hen. "Which is poor man? Me or the grandfather?" "I meant you." "Yes I am poor man. When I was very young I used often to be drunk. Now it is very seldom. Once or two time in the year. But always I do something I am very sorry for. I think perhaps I shall get drunk tonight," he suggested, brightening. "No, Erik, not tonight." "No? Very well not tonight. But it will be soon. It is very long since I was drunk." The confession shed a momentary gloom. All four sat in silence. Sir Jocelyn stirred himself and ordered some more absinthe. "There were parrots, too," he said with an effort. "All along the road to Laku. I never saw such parrots � green and red and blue and �and every colour you can think of, talking like mad. And gorillas." "Sir Hitchcock," said the Swede, "I have lived in this country ever since I killed my grandfather and I never saw or heard of a gorilla." "I saw six," said Sir Jocelyn stoutly, "sitting in a row." The Swede rose abruptly from his stool. "I do not understand," he said. "So I think I shall go." He paid for his grenadine and left them at the bar. "Odd chap that," said Sir Jocelyn. "Moody. Men get like that when they live in the tropics. I daresay it was all a delusion about his grandfather." There was food of a kind procurable at Popotakis's Ping-Pong Parlour. "Will you dine with me here," asked Sir Jocelyn, "as it's my last evening?" "Your last evening?" "Yes, I've been called away. Public interest in Ishmaelia is beginning to wane." "But nothing has happened yet." "Exactly. There was only one story for a special � my interview with the Fascist leader. Of course it's different with the Americans �fellows like Jakes. They have a different sense of news from us � personal stuff, you know. The job of an English special is to spot the story he wants, get it � then clear out and leave the rest to the agencies. The war will be ordinary routine reporting. Fleet Street have spent a lot on this already. They'll have to find something to justify it and then they'll draw in their horns. You take it from me. As soon as they get anything that smells like front page, they'll start calling back their men. Personally I'm glad to have got my work over quick. I never did like the place." They dined at Popotakis's and went to the station to see Hitchcock off. He had secured the single sleeping car which was reserved for official visitors and left in great good humour. "Good-bye, Boot, remember me to them at the Beast. I wonder how they are feeling now about having missed that Laku story." The train left and William found himself the only special correspondent in Jacksonburg.
He and K�hen drove back. K�hen said: "Frau Dressler was very angry again this afternoon." "Beast." "William you do like me." "I love you. I've told you so all day." "No you must not say that. My husband would not allow it. I mean, as a friend." "No, not as a friend." "Oh dear you make me so sad." "You're crying." "No." "You are." "Yes. I am so sad you are not my friend. Now I cannot ask you what I wanted." "What?" "No I cannot ask you. You do not love me as a friend. I was so lonely and when you came I thought everything was going to be happy. But now it is spoiled. It is so easy for you to think here is a foreign girl and her husband is away. No one will mind what happens to her...No, you are not to touch me. I hate you." William sat back silently in his corner. "William." "Yes." "He is not going to the Pension Dressler. It is to the Swede again." "I don't care." "But I am so tired." "So am I." "Tell him to go to the Pension Dressler." "I told him. It's no good." "Very well. If you wish to be a beast..." The Swede was still up, mending with patient, clumsy hands the torn backs of his hymnbooks. He put down the paste and scissors and came out to direct the taxi-driver. "It was not true what Sir Hitchcock said. There are no gorillas in this country. He cannot have seen six. Why does he say that?" His broad forehead was lined and his eyes wide with distress and bewilderment. "Why did he say that, Boot?" "Perhaps he was joking." "Joking? I never thought of that. Of course, it was a joke. Ha, ha, ha. I am so glad. Now I understand. A joke." He returned to his lighted study, laughed with relief and amusement. As he settled himself to work once more, he hummed a tune. One by one the tattered books were set in order, restored and fortified, and the Swede chuckled over Sir Jocelyn's joke. William and K