John opened his eyes. Apparently the failed B.A. was offering himself as cook; but John thought he must be mistaken. Mr. Gillespie, however, after a stare at his visitor, said in a severely practical tone--
"You have experience?"
"Yes, sir, I am experientia docet with several years' standing, and testimonials galore. Videlicet, the Central Restaurant, sir, in London, continuously chock-a-block on curry day when my dishes, prepared Indian fashion, were the delight of city gents and ladies of prepossessing appearance who feed there regular as clock-work. In soup, joint, entrée I am a don; in sauce I am a wily adept."
"Come up to my bungalow and cook my dinner to-night," said Mr. Gillespie.
"Verree good, sir. The proof of the pudding is in the mastication thereof. Good-morning, sir, and assuring you of my best services at all times."
There was a laugh when Said Mohammed had gone.
"He'll never do," said Mr. Halliday.
"Man, if he's any good at all he'll be a perfect treasure," said Mr. Gillespie. "And you'll have to pay him fifty rupees a month."
"Near £3 a month for cooking?" cried Mr. Halliday. "Can't afford it."
"But, my dear sir, you can't get any sort of a cook here for less than thirty rupees; and our failed B.A., if he's worth his salt, will be worth fifty. He will at least be clean; it's a part of his religion."