“Good morrow, gentle Damocles,” he remarked, entering the big verandah adown which the chubby boy pranced gleefully to meet his beloved friend, shouting a welcome, and brandishing a sword designed, and largely constructed, by himself from a cleaning-rod, a tobacco-tin lid, a piece of wood, card-board and wire.
“Thalaam, Major Thahib,” he said, flinging himself bodily upon that gentleman. “I thaw cook cut a fowl’s froat vis morning. It squorked boofly.”
“Did it? Alas, that I missed those pleasing-er-squorks,” replied the Major, and added: “This is thy natal day, my son. Thou art a man of five.”
“I’m a debble. I’m a norful little debble,” corrected Damocles, cheerfully and with conviction.
“Incidentally. But you are five also,” persisted the senior man.
“It’s my birfday to-day,” observed the junior.
“I just said so.”
“That you didn’t, Major Thahib. This is a thword. Father’s charger’s got an over-weach. Jumping. He says it’s a dam-nuithanth.”
“Oh, that’s a sword, is it? And ‘Fire’ has got an over-reach. And it’s a qualified nuisance, is it?”
“Yeth, and the mare is coughing and her thythe is a blathted fool for letting her catch cold.”