“I’m getting deadly sick of that fellow Bracebrydge,” began Upward. “I wish to heaven he’d clear. He always wants to boss the whole show as if it belonged to him. Did you hear him trying to dictate where we were to pitch the tiffin camp?”
“Yes.”
“He always does that sort of thing, or tries to be funny at somebody else’s expense. I’m getting jolly sick of it.”
He was still more sick of it, when, on returning, he found that Bracebrydge had carried his point, and actually had caused a removal of the said site. However, Upward was of an easy going disposition, though addicted to occasional fidgety fits, so he came to the conclusion that it couldn’t be helped now, and didn’t really matter after all, and the tiffin was plenteous and good, and the soda water well cooled. So they fed, and chatted, and had a good time generally.
“I say, Upward. Can’t someone throw a few bottles at that brute?” remarked Bracebrydge, as, cheroots having been lit, the male element stretched at full length on the ground, was lazily puffing at the same. “He’ll crack the drum of one’s blessed ears directly, the howling lunatic.”
The noise complained of was a soft, melancholy, wailing sound, something between a flute and a concertina, and it proceeded from one of the forest guard, who was tootling into some instrument of native make.
“Does it dik you, old chap?” replied Upward good naturedly. “I can shut him up, but we rather like it. Bulbul Khan swears he invented that instrument himself, and is immensely proud of it. We look upon him as our Court minstrel of sorts. He’s always tuning up when we go out anywhere. Never without his pipes.”
“What did you say the soor’s name was?” growled Bracebrydge.
“Bulbul Khan. That’s my name for him,” laughed Upward. “His real name’s Babul Hân, but I christened him Bulbul Khan, because he’s always making melody. Not bad, eh?”
“Oh yes—beastly funny—Ah—ha—ha—ha!” sneered Bracebrydge.