“Well, Hilton, old man, what do you think of this?” said Chumbley, smiling. “We Europeans have gone ahead, and got steam and electricity, and all the luxuries of civilisation, as the fine writers call it, while the East has stopped just where it was, and we might be Ali Baba’s Brothers, or the One-eyed Calender, or some other of those Arabian Night cock-o’-waxes here amongst all these slaves and spearmen. I say, I think I shall write a book about it—‘The adventures of two officers taken prisoners by a wicked queen.’”
“Chumbley,” retorted Hilton, “you used to have one good quality.”
“Had I? What was that, old man?”
“You were a fellow who didn’t talk much,” said Hilton; “but now your tongue goes like a woman’s, and you are a positive nuisance.”
“Thankye, old fellow. But you ought not to grumble, seeing how impressionable you have of late proved to the prattling of a woman’s tongue.”
“The Inche Maida’s?” said Hilton, in a low voice. “Well no: not exactly hers, dear boy. But I say, Hilton, she is a woman and a lady; don’t say hard things to her.”
“Hard things?” cried Hilton, angrily. “Come, I like that! Hang it, man, after this outrage she ought to be shut up in a lunatic asylum!”
“Humph!” said Chumbley, slowly. “I don’t know. They say love is a sort of lunacy, and people do strange things who get the disease badly. You’re been an awful idiot lately!”
“Chumbley, do you want me to strike you?” cried Hilton, fiercely.
“No, dear boy,” drawled his friend; “but you can give me a punch if it will do you good. I shan’t hit you again.”