Somaliland, ain't it, Stalky?" asked the Infant.
Stalky puffed out his nostrils scornfully. "You're only three
thousand miles out. Look at the atlas."
"Anyhow, he's as rotten full of fever as the rest of you," said
the Infant, at length on the big divan. "And he's bringing a
native servant with him. Stalky be an athlete, and tell Ipps to
put him in the stable room."
"Why? Is he a Yao--like the fellow Wade brought here--when your
housekeeper had fits?" Stalky often visits the Infant, and has
seen some odd things.
"No. He's one of old Strickland's Punjabi policemen--and quite
European--I believe."
"Hooray! Haven't talked Punjabi for three months--and a Punjabi
from Central Africa ought to be amusin'."
We heard the chuff of the motor in the porch, and the first to
enter was Agnes Strickland, whom the Infant makes no secret of
adoring.
He is devoted, in a fat man's placid way, to at least eight
designing women; but she nursed him once through a bad bout of
Peshawur fever, and when she is in the house, it is more than all
hers.
Pages:
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231