“You wish you had been there?” said Singh. “Why, I thought you said that you wouldn’t fight any more.”
“To be sure; so I did. Well, then, I don’t wish I had been there. But I say,” continued Glyn, laughing merrily, “what a lot of Greek he must know!”
“But he doesn’t,” cried Singh. “He doesn’t know much more than I do, for he came to me to help him with something the other day.”
“Well, then, as Wrenchy says, how what he does know must have disagreed with him!”
“Yes,” said Singh thoughtfully, as he laid his hand on his companion’s shoulder and they strolled down the garden together, waiting for the breakfast-bell to ring. “Poor old fellow! Poor old fellow! Poor old fellow!”
“Well, you are a queer chap, Singh! You say you want to be thoroughly English, and you talk like that.”
“Well, I do want to be English,” cried Singh, “and I try very hard to do as you do, because I know what guardian says is right.”
“Well, you never heard me pity Slegge and call him poor old fellow.”
“I didn’t. I meant poor Wrenchy, who wants money so badly. It must be very queer to want money very badly and not be able to get it.”
“I suppose so,” replied Glyn. “I seem to have always had enough, while as for you, you’re as rich as rich; quite a king you’ll be some day, with servants and a little army, and everything you want. I say, what do you mean to do with all your money?”