“No. . . . I was talking about harmful liquor,” replied Piggy patiently. “Things like—what did you call it? . . . Chalk-squash?”
“Lime-squash,” admitted Bertram with another glowing blush.
“Give it up, Sonny, give it up,” put in Bill. “Turn over a new leaf and start afresh. Make up your mind that, Heaven helping you, you’ll never touch a drop of the accursed poison again, but forswear slops and live cleanly; totally abstaining from—what is it?—soda-crunch?—fruit-juice, ginger-beer, lemonade, toast-water, barley-water, dirty-water, raspberryade, and all such filthy decoctions and inventions. . . .”
“Yes—give the country a chance,” interrupted Piggy. “Climate’s all right if you’ll take reasonable care and live moderately,” and he impatiently rang the little bell again. “’Course, if you want to be ill and come to an early and dishonourable grave, drink all the rot-gut you can lay hands on—and break your mother’s heart. . . .”
Piggy lay back in his chair and gazed pensively at the ceiling. So did Bill. Bertram felt uncomfortable. “Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Bill, between a sigh and a grunt. “Chalk-powder and lemonade! . . . what a nerve! . . . Patient, unrecognised, unrewarded heroism. . . .”
“Merciful Heaven,” whispered Piggy, “slaked-lime and ginger-beer! . . What rash, waste courage and futile bravery. . . .” And suddenly leapt to his feet, swung the bell like a railway porter announcing the advent of a train, and roared “Boy!” until a white-clad, white-capped Swahili servant came running.
“N’jo, Boy!” he shouted. “Come here! . . . Lot of lazy, fat n’gombe. [72a] . . . Three ‘Devil’s Own’ cocktails, late hapa,” [72b] and as, with a humble “Verna, Bwana,” the servant hurried to the bar, grumbling.
“And now he’ll sit and have a shauri [72c] with his pals, while we die of thirst in this accursed land of sin and sorrow. . . . Beastly shenzis. [72d] . . .”
“You don’t like Africa?” said Bertram, for the sake of something to say.
“Finest country on God’s earth. . . . The only country,” was the prompt reply.