“You have no income?”
“The munificent pay awarded by Her Majesty’s Government to a lieutenant of foot, my dear doctor, as you perfectly well know.”
“Exactly,” continued the doctor. “And you would not be afraid of a widow?”
“No, I don’t think I should.”
“Then marry Mrs Barlow. She is to be had for the asking, I am sure; and she has a nice bit of money. It would be a catch for you, and relieve poor Arthur Rosebury from further trouble.”
“Hilton, old man,” said Chumbley, solemnly, “do you think there is a crocodile in the river big enough to receive this huge carcase of mine?”
“Doubtful,” said Hilton, laughing. “I agree with you, Hilton! it is doubtful. But sooner would I plunge in and be entombed there than in the affections of Barlow. No, doctor, if you have my health at heart, you must prescribe differently from that. I say, though, don’t you take it rather coolly about the chaplain?”
“Coolly? Not I, my dear fellow; but how can a man like me sit down and snivel? Here am I watching Helen Perowne one day, her father the next; then up all night with Billy—I mean Mrs—Barlow; without taking into consideration the calls to Private Thomas Atkins, who has eaten too much plaintain and mangosteen, and thinks he has the cholera; Mrs Ali Musto Rafoo, who is in a fidget about her offspring; and all the livers of the European residents to keep in gear. I say I have no time to think of anything.”
“But Solomon’s gold mines,” said Chumbley.
“Get out with your chaff!” cried the doctor. “But seriously, I have got hold of that fellow Yusuf, and he tells me he thinks he can find the chaplain, and I am just off. I couldn’t help the allusion to the gold.”