"Burnaby--Tom Burnaby. My uncle is Major Burnaby of the Guides."
"Might have known it, h'm! you're as like as two tom-cats. Jack Burnaby's a fine fellow, sir; I know him. Fine country this. We made it a fine country. Ain't you proud to be an Englishman? 'Tis four hundred years or so since Vasco da Gama--heard of him, I suppose?--came ashore here on his famous voyage to India. To be exact, it was the year 1497. It was a fine place then; did a fine trade, sir. He didn't get backed up. No stamina in those Portuguese. Suffer from jumps, don't you know. Arabs got in; consequence, rack and ruin. Decay, sir; dry rot and mildew. We stepped in somewhere in the twenties, and then--stepped out again. Stupid! Now we've got our foot in, and begad we won't lift it again, or I don't know Joe Chamberlain. I know him. H'm!"
The old fellow's short snaps of sentences, and the little gasps he gave at intervals, rather tickled Tom.
"Yes," he continued, "the Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it provisionally to the British East Africa Company. They were made definite masters of the place two years later, and also put in possession of a vast tract of country extending four hundred miles along the coast. H'm!"
At this Tom began to fear that he was in for a lecture, but he was reassured the next moment.
"Jack Burnaby's at Kisumu, six hundred miles up the line. There's a fine thing for you, now--this railway. Suppose you are going up to-morrow? We're coming on next week. Well, a word of advice, h'm! Don't go third-class. Nobody goes third-class. Blacks, you know--and lions. A lion boarded the train the other day, and swallowed two niggers in a winking. Strong-flavoured meat, h'm! Lions never touch first-class passengers--never tackled me! Well, I'll be glad to see Jack Burnaby again. He'll remember Ted Barkworth; yes, begad, and our little diversion in Tokio in 95. Now, sir, will you come and smoke a cigar with me? Don't smoke? Well, well, none the worse for it, at present, h'm! See you on the veranda, no doubt."
Mr. Barkworth went off to the smoking-room. As Tom got up, he noticed a red-covered book lying on the chair next to the one occupied by his talkative neighbour. He picked it up, intending to give it to one of the waiters, and casually turned over the leaves. The book opened rather easily at one place, and Tom, glancing at the page, saw: "The Sultan of Zanzibar in 1888 ceded it provisionally to the British East Africa Company. They were made definite masters of the place two years later, and also--" He read no farther; he had just recognized the passage which Mr. Barkworth had reeled off so glibly, and was chuckling at having discovered the source of the old man's information, when his glee was checked by a pleasant voice at his elbow saying:
"Excuse me, but have you seen a red-covered guide-book, left on one of the chairs?"
Tom straightened his face, and, turning, saw a pretty girl of some seventeen summers, looking very dainty and bewitching in her plain white frock. He closed the book, and held it out without a word.
"Oh, thank you!" said the girl. "Poor Father is always so careless."