“Lost a rupee, did she? Lucky young thing. Wish I had one to lose. Who showed you how to hold that sword? Why do you crook your fingers round the cross-piece like that?”
“Chucko laid me an egg latht night,” observed Damocles. “He laid it with my name on it—so that cook couldn’t steal it.”
“No doubt. Look here, where can I get a sword like yours? Where can I copy it? Who makes them? Who knows about them?”
“I don’t know, Major Thahib. Gunnoo sells ‘Fire’s’ gram to the methrani for her curry and chuppatties.”
“But how do you know swords are like this? That thing isn’t a pukka sword.”
“Well, it’th like Thir Theymour Thtukeley’s in my dweam.”
“What dream?”
“The one I’m alwayth dweaming. They have got long hair like Nurse in the night, and they fight and fight like anything. Norful good fighters! And they wear funny kit. And their thwords are like vis. _Egg_zackly. Gunnoo gave me a ride on ‘Fire,’ and he’th a dam-liar. He thaid he forgot to put the warm jhool on him when Daddy was going to fwash him for being a dam-fool. I thaid I’d tell Daddy how he alwayth thleepth in it himthelf, unleth he gave me a ride on ‘Fire’. ‘Fire’ gave a norful buck and bucked me off. At leatht I think he didn’t.”
Major Decies’ face was curiously intent—as of some midnight worker in research who sees a bright near glimpse of the gold his alchemy has so long sought to materialize in the alembic of fact.
“Come back to sober truth, young youth. What about the dream? Who are they, and what do they say and do?”