“And yet he calls a woman a tigress and a savage because she utters threats that an Englishwoman would hide out of sight.”
“You are improving, Chumbley.”
“Yes, I am,” said the other.
“Now, are you ready to try and escape before we are krissed?”
“Bah!—stuff! She wouldn’t kris us! She’d threaten, but she wouldn’t hurt a hair of your head, unless scissoring off one of your Hyperion curls injured it when she took it for a keepsake. I’m going to prophesy now.”
“Going to what?”
“Prophesy—set up as a prophet. Are you ready?”
“Ready?”
“Yes. Can you bear it?”
“If you are going to chatter away like this,” said Hilton, contemptuously, “I shall pray her Malay majesty to find me another cell. There, go on. What is your prophecy?”