A MOHAMMEDAN.
The young folks all rushed out to meet him (he is a prime favourite with them) and there was much whispering and laughing and a long confabulation before they came back.
Enderby entered, and greeted the older people merrily: but there was a quizzical frown upon his brow as he sat down near me. “What’s all this O’Neill?” he whispered. “Are you ill?”
“I’m as well as could be expected in the circumstances.”
“Circumstances! Why you wouldn’t touch the good food they gave you. Not content with despising their cookery you objected to their tea-cups, and pretend that religious scruples keep you from eating until after half-past ten. They think you are some kind of Mohammedan. These kind people are a little hurt, I fear; and I can see they are greatly astonished.”
“So am I! I have been as polite as anything, all the time; but though they offer me plenty of everything, if I attempt to help myself, whew!—they whisk the dish away. They may be hurt, as you say; but I can tell you, I’m starving. Is there no way to—.”
Our conversation was interrupted by the mother’s voice, which broke in with the cheery question: “Mijnheer Enderby houdt wel van Hollandsche kost, niet waar?”
PROBEER NOUW IS.
I watched what he would say.
He used two easy words: “Dat spreekt.”