“Bess durian,” he said, in an exaggerated ecstatic manner. “Quite bess ripe.”
Bob stooped down and retook a portion of the strange fruit, smelt it cautiously, and then, taking out a knife, prepared to taste it.
“You are never going to eat any of that disgusting thing, are you, sailor?” cried Tom Long.
“I’m going to try it, soldier,” said Bob coolly. “Come and have a taste, lad.”
In the most matter-of-fact way, though quite out of bravado on account of Tom Long’s disgusted looks, Bob took a long sniff at the durian.
“Well, it is a little high,” he said, quietly. “Not unlike bad brick-kiln burning, with a dash of turpentine.”
“Carrion, you mean,” said Tom Long.
“No, not carrion,” said Bob, picking out a good-sized fragment of the fruit upon his knife; “it’s what the captain calls sui generis.”
“All burra sahib like durian,” said the Kling, showing his white teeth.
“Then the burra sahibs have got precious bad taste,” said Tom Long, just as Bob put the first piece of the fruit into his mouth, rolled his eyes, and looked as if he were about to eject it into the stream, but did not; gave it a twist round, tasted it; looked less serious; began to masticate; and swallowing the piece, proceeded to take a little more.