“Ali Latee, sir, the Tumongong’s son.”
“Very well. Be off!”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” cried Bob joyously, and he hurried away.
Ensign Long felt perfectly sure that if he went direct to the major, and asked for leave to go ashore shooting, it would be refused. He would have gone and asked Captain Smithers to intercede for him, but the captain was always short, and ready to be annoyed at nearly everything said; so he concluded that Bob Roberts’ idea was the best, and he went straight to Doctor Bolter, who was in his room, in his shirt and trousers, both his sleeves rolled up, busily pinning out some gorgeous butterflies that he had secured.
“Ah, Long!” he said, as the youth entered; “how are you? just hand me that sheet of cork.”
“Quite well, sir, thank you.”
“Oh! are you? I’ll look at your tongue directly. Hand me one of those long thin pins.”
The pin was handed.
“Now put a finger on that piece of card. Gently, my dear boy, gently; the down upon these things is so exquisitely fine that the least touch spoils them. Look at that Atlas moth by your elbow. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Magnificent, sir,” said Long, taking up a shallow tray, and really admiring the monstrous moth pinned out therein.