"Well, the truth is," said Turnbull, suddenly and startlingly,
becoming quite grave and precise, "the truth is, the nigger is a
Margate nigger, and we are now on the edge of the Isle of Thanet,
a few miles from Margate."

Then he had a momentary return of his hysteria and said: "I say,
old boy, I should like to see a chart of our fortnight's cruise
in Wilkinson's yacht."

MacIan had no smile in answer, but his eager lips opened as if
parched for the truth. "You mean to say," he began----

"Yes, I mean to say," said Turnbull, "and I mean to say something
funnier still. I have learnt everything I wanted to know from the
partially black musician over there, who has taken a run in his
war-paint to meet a friend in a quiet pub along the coast--the
noble savage has told me all about it. The bottle containing our
declaration, doctrines, and dying sentiments was washed up on
Margate beach yesterday in the presence of one alderman, two
bathing-machine men, three policemen, seven doctors, and a
hundred and thirteen London clerks on a holiday, to all of whom,
whether directly or indirectly, our composition gave enormous
literary pleasure. Buck up, old man, this story of ours is a
switchback. I have begun to understand the pulse and the time of
it; now we are up in a cathedral and then we are down in a
theatre, where they only play farces. Come, I am quite
reconciled--let us enjoy the farce."

But MacIan said nothing, and an instant afterwards Turnbull