We shook our heads for neither of us could remember having done so.
“Well, I did not,” continued Bastin, “since at present I have found no opportunity of saying a word in season. So I suppose she must have gathered it from my attire, though as a matter of fact I haven’t been wearing a collar, and those men who wanted to cook me, pulled off my white tie and I didn’t think it worth while dirtying a clean one.”
“If,” said Bickley, “you imagine that you look like the minister of any religion ancient or modern in a grubby flannel shirt, a battered sun-helmet, a torn green and white umbrella and a pair of ragged duck trousers, you are mistaken, Bastin, that is all.”
“I admit that the costume is not appropriate, Bickley, but how otherwise could she have learned the truth?”
“These people seem to have ways of learning a good many things. But in your case, Bastin, the cause is clear enough. You have been walking about with the head of that idol and always keep it close to you. No doubt they believe that you are a priest of the worship of the god of the Grove—Baal, you know, or something of that sort.”
When he heard this Bastin’s face became a perfect picture. Never before did I see it so full of horror struggling with indignation.
“I must undeceive them without a moment’s delay,” he said, and was starting for the cave when we caught his arms and held him.
“Better wait till they come back, old fellow,” I said, laughing. “If you disobey that Lord Oro you may meet with another experience in the sacrifice line.”
“Perhaps you are right, Arbuthnot. I will occupy the interval in preparing a suitable address.”
“Much better occupy it in preparing breakfast,” said Bickley. “I have always noticed that you are at your best extempore.”