“Well, how do you like it?” asked the rajah one day in Quad.
“My dear fellow, it’s splendid,” I answered. “It’s up in town, being measured for trousers, now. You can’t think how much trouble it saves.”
The rajah smiled and shook his head.
“Be moderate,” he said. “You mustn’t use it too much, or it’ll presume on it.”
“Will it? What will it do?”
“Why, if it’s always being projected, it’s as likely as not it’ll learn the trick of it, and take to projecting itself. Then you’ll be left in the lurch.”
“What shall I do then?”
“I don’t see what you can do,” said the rajah, scratching his head. “Of course, I should merely report it at headquarters; but you can’t, because you’ve no business with it at all.”
“Well, I shan’t grudge it a holiday now and then,” I said magnanimously.
The rajah was right. It did begin to take French leave. Several times when I wanted it I found it had, without a word of apology, projected itself off to Iffley or somewhere, and was not available. I spoke very severely to it. It said nothing, but listened with an unpleasant sort of smile. “We all have our duties,” I remarked, “and yours is to be here”—and I pointed to my chest—“when you are wanted. You’re as bad as a scout.”