I knew that Britain was the one country that doesn't bother about this kind of game, and that it would be safe enough to let ourselves go.
I talked Portuguese fairly well, and Peter spoke it like a Lourenco Marques bar-keeper, with a lot of Shangaan words to fill up.

He started on curacao, which I reckoned was a new drink to him, and presently his tongue ran freely.

Several neighbours pricked up their ears, and soon we had a small crowd round our table.
We talked to each other of Maritz and our doings.

It didn't seem to be a popular subject in that cafe.

One big blue-black fellow said that Maritz was a dirty swine who would soon be hanged.