I go
somewhere else, that's all--somewhere that's far away
and dear to get to. Persia would be found to answer, I
fancy. No end of a place, Persia. Why not come with
me?" And they had left the next afternoon for
Constantinople, on their way to Teheran. Of the
shyster, it is only known (by a newspaper paragraph)
that he returned somehow to San Francisco and died in
the hospital.
"Now there's another point," said I. "There you are
off to Persia with a millionaire, and rich yourself.
How come you here in the South Seas, running a trader?"
He said, with a smile, that I had not yet heard of
Jim's last bankruptcy. "I was about cleaned out once
more," he said; "and then it was that Carthew had this
schooner built and put me in as supercargo. It's his
yacht and it's my trader; and as nearly all the
expenses go to the yacht, I do pretty well. As for
Jim, he's right again; one of the best businesses, they
say, in the West--fruit, cereals, and real estate; and
he has a Tartar of a partner now--Nares, no less.
Nares will keep him straight, Nares has a big head.
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