in its variety. British, American, French, Italian, Greek,
Egyptian, and Japanese notes were rolled into one inexhaustible wad.
More bewildering even than this was Archy Bates's uncanny command of
gold. It was extraordinary how this impressed Mr. Spokesly. At a time
when sovereigns and eagles and napoleons had practically vanished from
the pockets of the private citizen, Archy Bates had bags of them. And
like his paper currency, it was of all nations. Ten-rouble Russian
pieces, twenty-drachma Greek pieces, Australian sovereigns, and massive
Indian medals worth twenty dollars each, chinked and jingled against the
homelier coinage of France and England. "Business, my boy, business!" he
would explain with a snigger when he met Mr. Spokesly's rapt gaze of
amazement. Very good business, too, the latter thought, and sighed. But
there was one point about Archy which distinguished him from many owners
of gold. He spent it. There lay the magic of his power over Mr.
Spokesly's mesmerized soul. He spent it. Mr. Spokesly saw him and helped
him spend it. Those princely disbursements night after night in
Alexandria postulated some source of supply. And night after night Mr.
Spokesly, pleasantly jingled with highballs and feminine society, felt
himself being drawn nearer and nearer the mysterious source from which
gushed that cosmopolitan torrent of money. Mr. Spokesly was in the right
mood for the revelation. He was serious. He was a practical man. He
needed no London School of Mnemonics to teach him to cultivate a man
with plenty of money. When he and Archy Bates had walked quickly away
from the ship and passed the guard at Number Six Gate, they could
scarcely be recognized by one who had seen them an hour before, Mr.
Spokesly silently munching his dinner under the Old Man's frown, Archy
in his pantry, encased in a huge white apron, bending his sharp nose
over the steaming dishes, and communicating in violent pantomime with
the saloon waiter.

Now they stood side by side, brothers, magnificently superior to all the
world. A dingy carriage rattled up and Archy waved it away impatiently.
Another, with two horses and rubber tires, was hailed and engaged.
"Might as well do the thing well," said Archy, and Mr. Spokesly agreed
in every fibre of his soul. And it was the same with everything else.
"My motto is," said Archy, "everything of the best, eh? Can't go far
wrong then. He-he!" The third engineer, vulgarian that he was, would
have l