"Wise women!" muttered Cyprian; but the speaker, unhearing, went on:
"I have had twelve babies born this year and baptized them all. Twelve among the Converted! It is God's will to provide the children."
"You can call it that if you like," Cyprian admitted. And Ferlie, uncertain that he was going to behave well throughout the drive, plunged into a dissertation on sweet potatoes.
Another mile and a half and the road became exciting enough for private prayer. All at once, a darksome pit yawning at the feet of Slippery Sam, he freed himself of his master's mild restraint by a coolly-timed kick at a vital piece of harness where he had been led by knowledge of Nicobarese psychology to expect the feeble co-operation of a bit of frayed string with his leather shackles, and proceeded to crop by the wayside.
"I am afraid we will have to get out," regretted the padre's dulcet tones.
From a hedge that was, luckily, not cactus, Ferlie succumbed to the retort courteous.
"I am out," she said.
No word came from Cyprian, and she was just wondering whether one of them ought not to be lowered, like Sinbad, into the pit in search of his mangled bones, when an angry pattering announced his arrival from the dark behind them.
"Why, where did we shed you?" in amazement.
"Half a mile back," he stormed. "I howled like a maniac, but you were engrossed in invoking your patron saint, and the padre, Slippery Sam."