"I've got papers on me that's worth a million to a certain party," he
whispered. "You understand, my notes in cipher."
He scowled with intense mystery.
"I keep 'em in an oiled-silk bag, tied around my neck with a string. And
here," he added hastily, patting his hip, as though to forestall any
attack I might make upon his person, "I carry my automatic. It shoots
nine bullets in five seconds. They got to be quick to catch me."
"Well, if you have either of those things on you," I said testily, "I
don't want to know it. How often have I told you not to talk and drink
at the same time?"
"Ah, go on," laughed Schnitzel. "That's an old gag, warning a fellow not
to talk so as to _make_ him talk. I do that myself."
That Schnitzel had important papers tied to his neck I no more believe
than that he wore a shirt of chain armor, but to please him I pretended
to be greatly concerned.
"Now that we're getting into New York," I said, "you must be very
careful. A man who carries such important documents on his person might
be murdered for them. I think you ought to disguise yourself."
A picture of my bag being carried ashore by Schnitzel in the uniform of
a ship's steward rather pleased me.
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