“Thir Theymour Thtukeley Thahib tellth Thir Matthew Thahib about the hilt-thwust. (What is ‘hilt-thwust’?) And Lubin, the thervant, ith a white thervant. Why ith he white if he ith a Thahib’s ‘boy’?”
“Good Gad!” murmured the Major. “I’m favoured of the gods. Tell me all about it, Sonny. Then I’ll undo this parcel for you,” he coaxed.
“Oh, I don’t wemember. They buck a lot by the tents and then Thir Theymour Thtukeley goes and fights Thir Matthew and kills him, and it’th awful lovely, but they dreth up like kids at a party in big collars and silly kit.”
“Yes, I know,” murmured the Major. “Tell me what they say when they buck to each other by the tents, and when they talk about the ‘hilt-thrust,’ old chap.”
“Oh, I don’t wemember. I’ll listen next time I dweam it, and tell you. Chucko’s egg was all brown—not white like those cook brings from the bazaar. He’s a dam-thief. Open the parcel, Major Thabib. What’s in it?”
“A picture-book for you, Sonny. All sorts of jolly beasts that you’ll shikar some day. You’ll tell me some more about the dream to-morrow, won’t you?”
“Yeth. I’ll wemember and fink, and tell you what I have finked.”
Turning to Nurse Beaton, the Major whispered:—
“Don’t worry him about this dream at all. Leave it to me. It’s wonderful. Take him on your lap, Nurse, and—er—be ready. It’s a very life-like picture, and I’m going to spring it on him without any remark—but I’m more than a little anxious, I admit. Still, it’s got to come, as I say, and better a picture first, with ourselves present. If the picture don’t affect him I’ll show him a real one. May be all right of course, but I don’t know. I came across a somewhat similar case once before—and it was not all right. Not by any means,” and he disclosed the brilliantly coloured Animal Picture Book and knelt beside the expectant boy.
On the first page was an incredibly leonine lion, who appeared to have solved with much satisfaction the problem of aerial flight, so far was he from the mountain whence he had sprung and above the back of the antelope towards which he had propelled himself. One could almost hear him roar. There was menace and fate in eye and tooth and claw, yea, in the very kink of the prehensile-seeming tail wherewith he apparently steered his course in mid-air. To gaze upon his impressive and determined countenance was to sympathize most fully with the sore-tried Prophet of old (known to Damocles as Dannle-in-the-lines-den) for ever more.