“I say, Doctor,” said the Resident—“or no; I’ll ask your brother-in-law. Mr Rosebury, did the doctor ventilate his astounding theory over in England?”
“No,” replied the chaplain, smiling, “I have never heard him propound any theory.”
“I thought not,” said the Resident. “Go on, doctor.”
“I don’t mind your banter,” said the little doctor, good-humouredly. “Now look here, Captain Hilton, I want to know what more you wish for. There’s Malacca due south of where you are sitting, and there lies Mount Ophir to the east.”
“But there is a Mount Ophir in Sumatra,” said Lieutenant Chumbley, the big, heavy dragoon-looking fellow, who had not yet spoken.
“In Sumatra?” cried the doctor. “Bah, sir, bah! That isn’t Solomon’s place at all. I tell you I’ve investigated the whole thing. Here’s Ophir east of Malacca, with its old gold workings all about the foot of the mountain; there are the apes in the trees—Boy, more ice.”
“And where are the peacocks?” drawled Chumbley.
“Hark at him!” cried the doctor; “he says where are the peacocks? Look here, Mr Chumbley, if you would take a gun, or a geologist’s hammer, and exercise your limbs and your understanding, instead of dangling about after young ladies—”
“Shouldn’t have brought them out, doctor,” drawled the young fellow, coolly.
“Or say a collecting-box and a cyanide bottle,” continued the doctor, “instead of getting your liver into a torpid state by sitting and lying under trees and verandas smoking and learning to chew betel like the degraded natives, you would not ask me where are the peacocks?”