“Of course, so may I.”
“Yes; but I feel it here,” and Ibrahim placed his hand on his forehead.
“Premonition, eh? Take a good stiff dose of quinine, and you will be all right.”
“No, I am not sick.”
“Perhaps not, but talking of being sick. Wasn’t that a lark I had with the Mahdi?”
“What lark?”
“I forgot you were not there. It was good fun. I could have split my sides with laughter, but I had to be sober as a judge.”
“What did you do, Madcap?”
“Swear you won’t give me away.”
“Give you away?” repeated Ibrahim, surprisedly.