“‘Yet even this pales before his subterranean metropolis, the city of Ayuti, with its one giant inhabitant. This splendid savage, this intellectual barbarian, is, in our opinion, the wildest imagination of all. In the description of the Ayuti’s antlered steed, obedient to his master’s slightest command, we recognise——’”
“Oh, hang it all!” Seymour broke off angrily, “I’m sick of the drivel,” and he flung the paper to the floor.
“I guess you’d better explain the stuff to Chenobi,” remarked Silas; “he’s looking as if he’d like to be in the know.”
Following this suggestion, Seymour translated the article for the benefit of the Ayuti.
“So,” the latter cried, his eyes flashing with rage, “the dog not only doubts our friend’s story, but calls me barbarian and savage! Were it not that ye say the law of your land forbids killing, the hound should not live an hour.”
“Best of it is,” Garth broke in at this point, “the party that wrote that article—Max Dormer—has a place not five miles from here, and is holding a big meeting there to-day—some scientific society or other, I believe. It would be a bit of a joke if Chenobi was to pop over and pay ’em a visit.”
“By Jove! we’ll do it,” cried Seymour, slapping his thigh; “we’ll stir the beggars up.”
“The king had better go in his tin suit,” suggested Silas; “it’ll look more like business.”
“He shall,” returned the baronet, and spoke a few rapid words to his Ayuti friend.
Instantly the latter rose, an even finer figure in his perfect-fitting suit than he had looked in his mail.