There was no proof that we could find that would have condemned him of nefarious practises in a British court of law.
"And believe me," argued Will, sprawling on the plundered bed, blowing the smoke of a Melachrino through his nose, "your local British judges would take the word of Professor Schillingschen against all of ours, backed up by simply overwhelming native evidence! They're so in awe of Schillingschen's professorial degree, and of his passports, and his letters of introduction from this and that mogul that they wouldn't believe him guilty of arson if they caught him in the act!" "Something's got to be done with him pretty soon, though," answered Fred from the floor, lying at ease on a pillow and a folded Jaeger blanket, smoking a fat cigar.
Coutlass and Brown were singing songs outside the tent and I sat in a genuine armchair with my feet on a box full of canned plum pudding.
(Nobody knows, who has not hungered on the high or low veld--who has not eaten meat without vegetables for days on end, and then porridge without salt or sugar--how good that common, export, canned plum Pudding is! To sit with my feet on the case that contained it was the arrogance of affluence!) "We have his stores and his papers," said I.

"We have his Baganda; and as time goes on, and his other spies begin to come in, we shall have them, too, if we're half careful.

Why don't we let him go, to tell his own tale wherever he likes ?" "Maybe he'll die yet!" said the optimist on the camp-bed, blowing more cigarette smoke.
"Suppose he doesn't.

We've done our best to keep him alive.

He's quit bleeding.