“Look out! the old boy is dancing mad!”
If Sir Harry was not exactly dancing, he was doing something very like it—rushing about the office in a series of short dashes, as he was brought up by the walls or the furniture. He could not speak coherently.
“Sit down—write!” he jerked out. “That old fool—that old villain——!” a string of expletives in various Southern European tongues followed. “Thinks he’s diddled me, does he? I’ll diddle him!”
So far there seemed nothing to write, and Richard made a show of elaborate preparation, selecting a large sheet of paper, choosing a quill with care, and trying it on his thumb-nail. Then he looked up with respectful attention.
“Well, why don’t you write? Begin. ‘Khan!’ None of your flummery of polite phrases—I won’t have it. Let the fellow get it hot and strong.”
“‘Khan!’” repeated Richard obediently, secure in the knowledge that an English letter, however violent in expression, could do no harm.
“Well, go on! You know what I want said—pitch it him hot, I tell you. Can’t be too strong.”
“Perhaps if I knew which of the Khans it was, General, and what he has done——?”
“Done? Which of ’em? Why, old Gul Ali, of course. Is there ever anything wholly preposterous that the old idiot hasn’t got a hand in? As to what he’s done—why, he’s trying to embarrass me, sir! made up his mind to tie my hands! Says he’s helpless in the power of his family, who are keeping him prisoner, but he’ll escape and come to me and be my suppliant—lay his turban at my feet! Escape? yes—escape the punishment due to him, so he thinks—get me on his side, come out top dog after all! But I won’t have it. He shan’t come here and slobber over my boots! If I have to fight, I’ll fight with my hands free. Tell him I won’t receive him here—won’t see his dirty old face. He’s to go to his brother Shahbaz, if he goes anywhere, and stay with him till I send him orders to the contrary.”
“As you please, General.” Richard was writing busily.