DWALA

DWALA

A ROMANCE

BY
GEORGE CALDERON
AUTHOR OF ‘THE ADVENTURES OF DOWNY V. GREEN’

LONDON
SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE
1904

[All rights reserved]

TO
KITTIE

DWALA

I

The sun was sinking towards the Borneo mountains. The forest and the sea, inscrutable to the bullying noon, relented in this discreeter light, revealing secrets of green places. Birds began to rustle in the big trees; the shaking of broad leaves in the undergrowth betrayed the movement of beasts of prey going about their daily work. The stately innocence of Nature grew lovelier in a sudden trouble of virginal consciousness.

There was only one sign of human habitation in the landscape—a worn patch by the shore, like a tiny wilderness in a vast oasis. Battered meat-tins, empty bottles, and old newspapers littered the waterline; under the rock was a tumble-down hut and a shed; from a stable at the side a pony looked out patiently over the half-door; something rustled in a big cage. In the twilight under the shed a man lay sleeping in a low hammock, grizzled and battered, with one bare brown foot hanging over the edge. He yawned and opened his eyes.

‘Are ye thar, Colonel?’

Another figure, which had been crouching beside the hammock with a palm-leaf, watching the sleeper, slowly uprose. Hardly a human figure this, though dressed like a man; something rather akin to the surrounding forest; a thing of large majestic motions, and melancholy eyes, deep-set under thick eyebrows. The man sat up and coughed for a little while.

‘Whar’s the dinner, Colonel? You’ve not lit the fire yet.’

‘Fire crackles,’ said the Colonel.

The man stretched and spat.

‘Ah, you was afraid the noise’d wake me, sonny. Wahl, hurry up now, for I’m as peckish as a pea-hen.’

The man refilled his pipe from the big tin that lay in the hammock with him, while the Colonel, going hither and thither with large, deft movements, piled a fire, boiled a pot and spread the dinner. Dinner ready, he brought it to the man; crouching at his feet he watched him reverently as he handled knife and fork. At the smell of dinner a number of large monkeys came swinging down from the trees and collected outside the shed. A captive chimpanzee came out of a tub-kennel and began to ramble swiftly and silently to and fro on its chain, as if developing in movement some unwholesome purpose conceived in the hours of quiescence. The man threw them pieces from time to time, for which they scrambled and fought in a way that called for interference.

‘Now, Chauncey, you leave pore Amélie’s whiskers alone. That piece was meant for her.... Go slow, Marie! and you, William J. Bryan, get up off Talmage, unless you’ve a yearn for the far-end of my teacher’s help.’

When the meal was over the American took out some sewing—some old clothes of his own, that he was patching up for the Colonel—while the Colonel ate the scraps that remained, and cleared the things away. This done, the Colonel came and sat down once more by the man.

‘Whar’s your Word-makin’ and Word-takin’ gotten to, Colonel?’ said the American, looking up from his sewing. ‘Hev you bin hidin’ it up that teak tree agen?’

The Colonel looked uncomfortably about him, blinked once or twice, and scratched his thigh.

‘Burn my fingers,’ said the man, ‘but I think you’re as like a human b’y as any ape can get. Slip off yer boots. Mosey up and fetch ’em back right now, you young hellion, and spell me out “Home, sweet home,” afore I get to the end of this seam.’

‘So I’m a scientific discoverer, am I?’ mused the American, left alone. ‘And I’ve foun’ the Missin’ Link at last, hev I? There’ll be a pile o’ money in that, I shouldn’t wonder. The Colonel’ll be mighty pleased when he hears he ain’t an or’nary ape; he’ll be as proud as a Bishop among the angels.’

The Colonel meanwhile came climbing with swift and solemn accuracy down the teak tree, the box of letters in his mouth. The chimpanzee growled and chattered with aimless fury as she roamed to and fro.

‘See here, Colonel, I’ve hed a letter from the Boss. I fotch it in along with that passel on last Toosday.... Squit that I-talian music, you dun-coloured Dago’—this to the chimpanzee—‘you unlicensed traveller in otto o’ roses; shet yer head, I say, and don’t show yer lunch-hooks at me.... I’ll hev to get rid o’ that dosh-burned critter; she’ll niver be a credit to the Show.... Whar was I? Why, letter from the Boss; that’s so. Wahl, thar was noos in that letter fur you an’ me, Colonel, big noos.’

The Colonel turned his melancholy eyes on his master: their expression never varied, but his breath came quick and fast with an unspoken interrogation.

‘I’d bin expeckin’ it fur a lawng time; but I begin to feel sorter queer now it’s nigh on comin’ true.’

‘Are they goin’ to fetch us away?’ said the Colonel.

‘This vurry next day that is, Colonel; one of his boats will put in here and fetch me away with the whole of my bag o’ tricks to meet the Show in London.’

‘You’re mighty glad, eh?’

‘I’m that, sonny. But I feel sorter queer too. I’ve grown kinder used to this life, bein’ boss myself an’ all that. And yet, if you come to think of it, ... by Jelly, it’s the queerest thing of all. Me goin’ inter pardnership, as you might say, with an ornary ape! Hand me the matches, sonny—by my foot thar; this blamey pipe’s gone out agen.... Here was I an’ pore old Jabez dumped down by the Boss, to train some monkeys for his show. Whin Jabez took the fever and went over the range I began to be kinder lonesome; got a sorter hungry feel in my teeth with not speakin’. So I slipped into a kinder habit o’ talkin’ to you all like humans, jest to ease my gums. An’ all of a sudden, one fine day, Colonel, you bein’ dissatisfied with yer dinner, you ups an’ answers me back. I was tolerable astonished at the time, I remember, tho’ I didn’t let on, maybe, but jest caught you a clip on the ear for sassin’ yer biggers, an’ passed along. I’d niver hed any back-talk from an anthropoid before. Of course, as you say, it came nateral-like to you; you was on’y addin’ one more language to your vurry considerable stock, an’ I reckon from what you tell me that the de-flections of the verb are much simpler in Amurrkan than in Chimpanzee for instance; but the fack remains that you’re the first monkey I iver heard talkin’ outside of his own dialeck. The Boss was considerable interessted in my re-port, an’ he’s worked up a theory of how your species got the bulge on the rest by larnin’ their various lingoes, workin’ trade relations, and pouchin’ the difference of exchange on cokernuts an’ bread-fruits. It’s his idee to deliver himself of a lecture on the subject before the R’yal Institoot, an’ make you sing some o’ your folksongs whin we get to London.’

‘Ah—what like’s London, dad?’

‘Wahl, sonny, it’s not so fine a place as Bawston, but it has its p’ints. The people are easier took in than in Bawston, an’ we find it a better place for a Show. Then they hev a King in London, which we don’t hev in Bawston; besides dooks and markises, which we on’y see in Amurrka in the pairin’ season. An’ Shakspere was born near there too, an’ the original Miss Corelli. One city’s much like another, whin you’ve bin three years in Borneo. What a man gits a yearn for is civalisation.’

‘Ci-va-li-sation ... What’s civalisation, dad?’

‘It’s a hard word, sonny; but it means purty well everything we don’t hev here in Borneo. It means leadin’ a higher life, hustlin’ around, machinery, perlicemen, hevin’ a good time, iced drinks, theaters, ringin’ a bell fer yer boots, an’ a hunderd other things. Gas lamps, an’ electric light, an’ beer, an’ wine——’

‘Like yonder?’

‘That’s it, sonny; like that lot I brought from Bilimano, on’y stronger. An’ iverybody’s in lovely close; all the women lookin’ like picters outer “Puck”; all the men wi’ creases down their pants; pavement down along all the streets——’

‘Don’t stop sewin’, dad.’

‘Ah, you young scamp, you’re eager to git inter yer new pair, I can see. Gosh, but the women, they’re hunky.’

‘What like’s the streets, dad?’

‘It’s a cur’ous thing, but you don’t seem to take so much interest in the women as I’d hev expected, sonny ... I reckon you were in the habit, before I caught you, of sorter climbin’ out with gals of your own species among the banyan-trees down away in Java; and you don’t set much store by other kinds. That’ll be another p’int for the lecture.... Think what a man I’ll be over in England, sonny; I’ll be top o’ the tree over thar, you’ll be proud to know me. I’ll be flyin’ around the town in a plug hat an’ silver-topped cane, noddin’ an’ affable howdy to my multitudinous friends from the top of a tramcar. “Who’s that?” people will say. “Why, don’t you know? That’s the scientific man who foun’ the Missin’ Link.”’

‘Missin’ ... Missin’ what, dad?’

‘The Missin’ Link.’

‘What’s the ... Missin’ Link?’

‘Wahl, I should smile! Ef I hedn’t clean forgotten to tell you. It’s all in the Boss’s letter. Why—you’re the Missin’ Link, sonny!’

‘What’s that, anyway?’

‘Wahl, sonny, it means a sort o’ monkey that isn’t quite an ornary sort o’ monkey ... kinder, sorter.... Wahl, as you might say, sonny, partly almost more like a man.’

‘Like—like you, dad?’

‘Wahl, not that exactly—a sorter lower creation altogether. But there’s a lot o’ scientific folks as says that men are descended from Missin’ Links.’

The Colonel rose to his feet and looked out to sea with dilated nostrils.

‘Missin’ Links ... men ... civalisation ... and Colonel’s a Missin’ Link! Why, then....’

‘Go slow, sonny. I on’y said you was a peg higher’n an omary monkey. Jest sit down quiet an’ figure out “anthropoid” with those letters o’ yourn. You’d be mighty small potatoes in a civalised crowd; so you’ve no need to slop over that way.’

The Colonel sat down, obediently, to his letters, and they both worked in silence for some time.

‘Yes,’ continued the American, ‘I shouldn’t wonder ef they was to eleck me a member of some of those larned societies of theirs. They’ll be askin’ me out to champagne dinners, too, no doubt. I shouldn’t wonder now ef I was to be asked to go an’ dine with the Prince of Wales—him I was tellin’ you about; distinguished furriners always go to dine with the Prince o’ Wales.’

‘Take Colonel too, dad?’

‘Whar to, sonny?’

‘The Prince o’ Wales’s.’

‘Now that’s downright foolish to be talkin’ like that, Colonel. You’ll hev to stay with the Show, of course.... You’ll be pleased with the Show; it’s the most fre-quented place in London; they’ll be givin’ you buns an’ candy all day long. The Boss was thinkin’ of puttin’ you in the anamal department, but ef he’s pleased with you I shouldn’t wonder but what he’d promote you to the human monstrosities. I’ll put in a good word for you. We’ve bin the best o’ friends, Colonel; you kin hev the key o’ my trunk any day; but I won’t be able to see so much of you arter to-morrow. No. I’ve been thinkin’ over the question keerfully, an’ I’ve concluded you an’ me’ll not be able to travel over together.’

The Colonel listened with impassive attention. The American avoided his eye with some little embarrassment.

‘There’s all manner o’ difficulties, sonny. In the first place, these ignorant Christian sailor-lads that’ll come ashore to-morrow won’t perhaps hardly grasp the situation ef they find me talkin’ ornary sense with a hairy pagan ape; an’ I think you’d best keep yer head shet until they’ve gotten used to the looks of you, an’ I’ve hed time to explain matters. It might create some jealousies in the crew ef you was set up over their heads to consort with the captain an’ the mate, as I’ll be doin’. At first sight it seemed to me as ef you’d hev to travel all alone in the steerage as a third-class passenger.’

‘Steerage—what’s the steerage?’

‘That’s down in the between decks. Not so bad, sonny: I’ve travelled that way often myself. But it’s not high-class, like travellin’ with the captain.... Yes, that’s what I’d meant at first. But there’s obstacles in the way o’ that too, sonny. I’ve been thinkin’ ef we enter you as a passenger there may be difficulties at the Custom House with the Alien Immigrants Act. They’re mighty pertikler.... There, that’s done!’ he interjected, as he bit off the thread and held up the new trousers to view. ‘Climb inter those pants, sonny, an’ let’s see how they look.’

The Colonel did as he was told, and the American continued:

‘You an’ me would be mightily put about to fill in the form of declaration as to famaly history an’ religion an’ what not, ef it’s the same as in the States. An’ on the whole I’ve concluded it will be best to put you back in your old hutch and take you over under the Large Wild Anamals Act.’

The Colonel seemed wholly absorbed in the adjustment of his clothes. The muscles of his big jaw worked backwards and forwards to a pressure of the teeth.

‘They’re a bit baggy behind,’ continued his patron. ‘I’ll hev to take a reef in the seat. Slip ’em off again; you won’t be needin’ any close any more till we get over to London.’

Instead of obeying, the Colonel walked slowly forward out of the penthouse to the shade of a young tree where a big wooden cage lay lumbering on its side. He looked at it and turned it thoughtfully over with a push of his powerful leg; then laid one hand on the thick bough above him, the other on the stem of the tree. A slow cracking and rustling ensued, splinters gaped white, the bough was in his hands, raised aloft, and descending furiously, smashing the old hutch to little pieces. The American rose astounded from his hammock.

‘Quit that foolin’, and come here!’

Bang! Bang! Bang!

‘Come here, you mule-headed monkey.’

The Colonel dropped breathless for one moment on all fours, rose to his full height swinging the monstrous branch over his head and sending forth a long loud yell like a man in a nightmare, then swept crashing away into the forest, his weapon thumping like a sledge-hammer as he went.

The monkeys in the trees about chattered applause or commentary, a cloud of sea-fowl flew up from the shore, and the American stood scratching the back of his head thoughtfully in the midst. Then he looked round at the trees and the sea and the pony, taking them all into his confidence with a discomfited smile; pulled himself together and shouted:

‘Colonel!’

He grew contemptuous at the want of an answer, thrust down the ashes in his pipe with a horny finger, and returned slowly to his rest under the shed, consoling his solitude with a slow-flowing murmur of scorn:

‘All right, my child. You wait till you come back. Civalisation! You! You ornary, popeyed, bobtailed, jimber-jawed, jerrybuilt jackass....’

II

The Colonel went through the virgin forest, spending his fury in motion, swinging forward from branch to branch, running, leaping, till the fury was lost in the recovered delight of liberty. Childhood continued, after an irrelevance.

Here was the old smell of forest earth, the inexhaustible plenty of bare elastic boughs, the cool feeling of fungus, the absence of articulate speech, the impossibility of anger. Night came, the grand and terrible night, with its old familiar fear, long lost in the neighbourhood of a confident human mind. He rejoiced in his fear as in a fine quality recovered, rousing it to an ecstasy after long silences, by murmuring his own name in the darkness in terrified tones: ‘Colonel! Colonel!’

Then there came a rustling of leaves, a low chuck-chuck of prey warning prey, the sound of a vast retreat, and the slow padding of panther feet on the forest floor. The Colonel lay still on his bough, tingling with an unnatural calm, and the Panther breathed deep below him and looked up. And the Panther said:

‘I am the Panther, all Panthers in one—a symbol, irresistible.’

Waves of strong life undulated down his spotted tail, as though life passed through him to and from all his tribe; and the Colonel lay in a pleasant fear and numbness on his bough. And the Panther said:

‘I will climb slowly to you.’

‘And leap suddenly!’

‘The glory of my eye shall increase upon you.’

‘Numbing my limbs!’

‘We will fall and play together on the earth.’

‘I shall die!’

‘A noble death.’

‘I shall be torn and eaten!’

‘And your strength shall go into the strength of All the Panthers.’

But as the Panther reached the fork of the boughs his paw slipped, and the numbness left the Colonel, and he leaped upon the neck of the panther with fingers and teeth, crying:

‘You are not All the Panthers, but a single creature like myself; and I will tear you as I tear a young tree when my limbs desire it.’

They fell together, a long distance, to the earth, and the Colonel grasped one mauling hind-paw of the panther with one foot and gripped him by the belly with the other, and rolled over and over with him, and strangled him, and tore his two jaws apart to the shoulder as an angry man might tear a glove. Then he licked his wounds and slung his boots over his shoulder again, and forgot all about the battle but the joy of unlimited ferocity.

So he went forward from day to day, forgetful of the past, and thoughtless for the future, till he came to the top of the mountain, and, looking back, beheld the sea. He gazed at it for some time, then murmured ‘Civalisation!’ and fell into a deep gloom of thought.

He followed the tops of the mountains to the north, with an obscure dissatisfaction growing in the dark back places of his mind; the pleasure of motion was poisoned in each extreme tension by a recurrent languor. He lacked something, and he did not know what he lacked. He went idly forward for many days, till he heard the chopping of an axe. He drew stealthily nearer to the sound, and followed the man back in the evening to his village—a village of naked men with dark skins, very orderly and quiet. And the Colonel lurked about by the village and watched the people, and was happy again.

For he had tasted the supreme happiness of the animal, the nearness of Man. The animal that has once had Man for his companion or for his prey is never afterwards contented with other company or fare. Curiosity had taken its place among his appetites; the necessity of watching Man’s inscrutable ways, the pleasure of using his implements and reproducing his effects.

III

In the dead of night the Colonel descended into the midst of the village, in boots and torn trousers, and drew water on the long beam-lever from the well and poured it into the tank, talking gently to himself while he did it; and the villagers, awakened by the creaking and rattling, crept to crannies and looked on and trembled.

And in the morning they gathered in the village square and speculated. Who is he? The women were afraid to go into the forest; the ripe crops dropped the seed from their ears in the clearings.

Night after night he was there, and graciously tasted of their offerings of fruit and cakes. No one slept by night but the children, and the priest who dreamed true dreams. The priest was their hope, for through him alone could the Soochings learn from the gods what must be believed and done. And day after day the perplexity grew, for the priest was old and forgot his dreams; and though he sat till sunset with the doctors of the law about him, he could not recall them.

But, one day, when they had sat for many hours in silence, watching the True Dreamer with his head bowed between his knees, trying to remember, a young priest spoke:

‘I myself have had a dream.’

‘Of what use are your dreams?’ said the old man, looking quickly up.

‘I dreamed that I saw the True Dreamer sleeping; and over him stood the vision of a dead man, with the burial cords hanging loose about him, and a peeled rod in his hand as of a messenger.’

A murmur ran round the squatting circle.

‘It is true,’ said the old man ‘I have seen this vision three times.’

‘And the True Dreamer said, “Who is he that cometh by night?” And the vision answered, “It is the God with Two Names, the inventor of the blow-pipe, come back to be king over the tribe as in the first time.”’

‘Katongo tells the truth,’ said the old man ‘so spake the vision.’

‘And the True Dreamer said, “Who shall be his chief priest and interpret his meaning to the multitude?” And the vision answered, “You yourself, O True Dreamer; and at your right hand shall stand the young man Katongo, who is foolish, but full of zeal.”’

‘All this was so,’ said the old man. ‘And, furthermore, the messenger told me the rites by which the God with Two Names may be propitiated. These rites are a secret which it is unlawful to reveal till the time be come. But should any of them be left undone, pestilence and destruction will fall on the whole tribe.’

The True Dreamer arose and went back to his house. The news spread through the tribe, and there was great rejoicing. The old king was promptly clubbed on the head, and the priests, attended by the state conch-blowers and heralds, proclaimed the accession of the new monarch under the title of King Dwala, Him-of-Two-Names, both unknown; drums were beaten, hogs were killed, and the tribe gave itself up to frenzies of loyalty and large draughts of the fermented juice of the mowa-tree.

The Colonel, terrified by the noise, withdrew further into the forest, and did not dare to return for several days. His absence gave no one but the priests the least concern, as his place was efficiently filled by a painted image of ugly and imposing aspect.

Preparations were hurried on for solemnising the nuptials of the new monarch—or the image—at the new moon, to the sacred sago-tree which stood in the middle of the place of assembly.

Politically speaking, the result of all these events was that the war party had captured the machine. The question which divided the Soochings at this time was the relation to be adopted by the tribe towards the gold-diggers who had lately penetrated into the Sooching forest. Many members of the tribe looked upon the miners as harmless idiots, bound by the curse of some more powerful magician to sweat at a spade, and too stupid to guard their treasures of wonderful mugs and tins and nails and even large pieces of corrugated iron from the clumsiest of thieves; but the seriously-minded tribesmen, and especially the religious party, penetrated their hidden motive of digging up the Spirit of Tree-Vigour, and bringing upon the Sooching forest that same blight of sterility which followed the track of the white men wherever they went. Nothing, in their view, could appease the already irritated Spirit but the wholesale destruction of these desecrators.

The Colonel’s continued absence put the war party in a dangerous position; the more so as a Jew from the mining camp arrived at this time with a little cartload of looking-glasses and whisky in the village, and brought over a number of wobblers to the party of peace. The True Dreamer worked hard for his party, dreaming judicious dreams by night, and organising search parties in the daytime for the purpose of bringing the new king to his throne.

The Colonel watched the search parties with interest, and at last had the courage to follow one of them back to the edge of the camp. That night, as he was amusing himself by the well in the moonlight, he was astonished at hearing a low clear whistle, and seeing men approaching him slowly from every side with deep obeisances; he had never yet seen human beings in this attitude, which seemed to be copied from the other animals. But it appeared that they meant kindly by it, and he let them approach until they made a small circle about him. A gaunt old man stood before him with arms upraised to the sky, pouring forth a torrent of incomprehensible words. Not knowing what was expected of him, the Colonel took a mug that lay beside him, dipped it in the tank, and handed it to the old man, whose eyes gushed over with tears of delight at this sign of favour; while the rest made a clucking noise with their tongues and said:

‘Dwala malana!’—which means, ‘Glory to Him-of-Two-Names.’

They invited him with gestures to taste the dishes of fruit which lay about him; and he did so, to their great joy. The village had all turned out by now; torches flared and smoked on every side; and it was in a blaze of light and through a thick avenue of men, women and children that the Colonel was at last conducted to the temple which had been prepared for him. The noise of conchs and drums had no more terrors for him now, and he watched the dances with an intensity of interest that threw him at last into a state of hypnotic coma.

The village slept late next morning. When the Colonel awoke he went out, from force of habit, to prepare breakfast. The guardians who slept on the threshold sat up and watched his movements awhile in stupid amazement; his quiet exit by the window had failed at first to rouse them.

He was working impatiently and irritably: he was afraid of being late; nothing was in its place. There was no axe to chop the wood; he had to break it with his hands. There were no matches, no tins of beef. It took all the gestures of all the priests to make him understand that he must not work. In time he grew used to being waited on by others; he grew used to obeisances and reverence. It was a new interest, and not more puzzling than most things. One thing disturbed him. Outside the temple was posted the Royal Minstrel, who played only one tune on his pipe—the Royal Tune. At first the Colonel had been delighted with this tune, and had made the minstrel play it to him from morning till night. But he grew tired of it. Whenever he opened the door, or even so much as showed his head at a window, the minstrel fired off this thing; when he went outside the village on any errand the minstrel followed him playing it. It maddened him, and at last he broke the pipe over the minstrel’s head and slunk back into his temple, and was very miserable for the rest of the day. But the people were delighted with this kingly trait, and the minstrel sold the pieces for a large price.

A strict watch was kept over his movements at first for fear he should escape; but after a while this was relaxed, and he used to roam at will in the forest. He usually returned at night, but not always. He visited the gold-diggings, but was alarmed by the look of the diggers, who reminded him of the American; he was afraid they would put him into a hutch. In another part of the forest he found a white man with a large family. The women and children were greatly frightened; but the man invited him into the house and told him he was a Missionary. The Colonel stayed there two days, and was converted to Christianity.

Meanwhile the tribe was preparing for war. The women were sealed up hermetically in huts; the warriors danced and rubbed their muscles with mowa juice; and late one night they disappeared silently with shields and spears among the trees. Next day they appeared again, exultant, with loads of booty; the white men had been utterly routed.

The stupefaction of the succeeding orgies was partially dispelled after many days by the frenzy of inspired minstrels, who proclaimed the imminence of the second Golden Age, and the permanent establishment of the wise and beneficent empire of the great Prince Dwala, Him-of-Two-Names, over the whole of the island, and those eyots beyond which constituted the rest of the habitable world.

The power of actual motion was finally restored by the rattle of musketry in the grey light of one dawn, and the snapping of twigs overhead, followed by the appearance of men in khaki among the trees. Unarmed and unprepared, the villagers fled into the forest beyond, and not a soul remained but the old Dreamer, who was seeking new visions in the quiet recesses of his sleeping apartment, and the Colonel, who ensconced himself comfortably in the sago-tree to watch this new human phenomenon. Horses crouched and snorted, dragging guns up the last slope, with a cluster of men straining at each wheel; infantrymen advanced and halted and turned at a shouted word; and the Colonel sat and looked on as at a new dance performed for his amusement. He was delighted at the burning of the huts, which made the biggest flame he had ever seen; but he grew tired at last of the long pauses in the ballet; so he climbed down to the tank and splashed water over the officers.

IV

The royal prisoner was royally housed. After the jolting journey in the sultry covered wagon, to the steady tramp of the marching soldiers, and the frightened crying of the old Dreamer who crouched beside him, it was pleasant to be in these spacious rooms, to look from under the sun-blinds into the leafy garden, to sit on the wet stones and dabble in the black pool in the hall.

Prince Dwala was shut up in the Old Residence while the Colonial Office made up its mind what was to be done with him. Compassionate ladies sent him baskets full of flowers. The rest of the prisoners—the Dreamer and a rabble of braves hunted down in the hills—were huddled away in the jail.

The Prince had many visitors. The Governor came, accompanied by his staff, young men in cocked hats, who looked as tall and morose as possible while the Governor lectured him. A young man came from the ‘Pioneer’ and interviewed him as to his opinion of Western civilisation; the Prince’s answers were disjointed, amounting to little more than ejaculations, such as ‘iced drinks’ and ‘theaters’; but his interest was evident, and the ‘Pioneer’ said that his views on the subject were ‘quite equal to those of some of the best of our Indian Princes.’ On the all-engrossing gold question he had been diplomatically discreet, nor would he commit himself on the equally difficult question of the British suzerainty over the Soochings.

He had numerous visits from Mr. Wyndham Cato, the Pro-Boer M.P., who was staying with the Governor, having arrived in the course of a grand tour of the Colonies, destined to supply him with ammunition for an attack on the Government all along the line on the ‘native question.’ But for Mr. Cato, the case of the Soochings would never have attained the importance it had. The Governor was disposed to treat the whole thing as a hole-and-corner brawl, a question of police; he would have bundled Dwala and his braves obscurely away into a penal settlement if he had been left alone. Mr. Cato blew the bubble. Bouverie Street and Whitehall, stimulated by telegrams, reacted one on the other. It became a public matter. The Governor smiled benignly, and squared it up to a larger scale. Thanks to Mr. Cato, Prince Dwala was a captive Prince instead of an arrested malefactor. The Prince conceived a warm affection for the little man, who let him try on his gold spectacles, and showed him how his watch wound up.

‘I have very little influence with the Governor; I have done all I can, and I am afraid that your deposition is certain,’ said Mr. Cato, one day, as he and the Prince squatted side by side at the edge of the pool—Mr. Cato folding little paper boats out of pieces of newspaper, while the Prince stirred the water with his foot to make them bob up and down. ‘But, even then, you will still be a Prince, and it is better to be a native Prince than the hereditary tyrant of a so-called civilised country, the heir of one of our mushroom dynasties of Europe, whose only purpose in life is to help a self-elected aristocracy, as vulgar as themselves, to grind down the sweating millions of honest working folk. You will still receive your revenues, if there is any justice left in this disjointed world of ours. I shall agitate to the best of my power to get some addition to your income from our niggardly Government. You will be a comparatively rich man, and if you win your lawsuit you ought to do very well indeed. Nobody has a right to prevent your going to London if you wish to. I am starting myself in a few days, and if you will allow me, I shall be very glad to take you with me.’

‘Not in a hutch?’

‘A “hutch”? Don’t be absurd. You won’t be a prisoner. You’ll travel as I travel. And, until some suitable residence has been found for you, I insist on your coming to stay with us at Hampstead. I am sure that my aunt and the two sisters who live with me will welcome you most warmly.’

The lawsuit to which Mr. Cato alluded was one of his own contriving. When the first load of gold from the mines was sold to the Bank, the Solicitor-General for the Colony had put in a claim for a royalty, which was met by the defence that the mine was outside the limits of the colony. The miners set up concessions granted by the deceased monarch of the Soochings. Mr. Cato, a republican at home, but a firm upholder of the divine rights of ‘native’ princes, hired a lawyer on behalf of Prince Dwala and claimed the mines as his personal property, set aside from time immemorial for the maintenance of the dignity of the Royal House. The tribe at large had never exercised more than the right of hunting over them. He denied the validity of the concessions, and asked for a declaration that the fee simple was vested in the Prince.

V

Prince Dwala formed a frequent subject of conversation at the Residence. Mr. Cato disagreed on every possible question with everybody there; but they found him a charming visitor, and the process of ‘draain’ his leg,’ as the Scotch call it, was an unfailing amusement to the younger members of the party.

He found them assembled round the breakfast table when he came out on the veranda next morning, beaming round through his gold spectacles with that benevolent smile with which he always began the day. Lady Crampton sat at the end, behind a silver urn—a flighty, good-looking creature, who might have passed for thirty. Besides her there were Mademoiselle and the three girls; Dick Crampton, and Reggie the nephew—secretaries both—deep in the batch of last month’s newspapers, which had just arrived.

The Governor and his private secretary were still at work.

‘When’s the execution, Dick?’ said Reggie, helping himself to ham.

‘Half-past ten, old man; you’ve lots of time.’

‘The usual tortures, I suppose?’

‘Just the usual. The Mater’s been up for hours sharpenin’ the spikes of the rack.’

‘Getting rusty, I suppose?’

‘Not they! They got blunted over all those land-tax defaulters last week.’

Helen, the youngest girl, tossed her long hair over her cheeks and exploded with laughter.

‘Soyez gentille, Hélène,’ said Mademoiselle: ‘les jeunes filles bien élevées ne rient pas à table.’

Mr. Cato adjusted his spectacles, and stared with horror from face to face.

‘What nonsense are those boys talkin’ down there?’ said Lady Crampton. ‘For Heaven’s sake don’t choke, Helen! Dick, you naughty boy, do try to behave.’

‘You mind what the Mater says, Reggie.’

‘What was Her Excellency pleased to remark?’

‘She says you’re not to play the elephas mas gigas ass. Hello, Guv’; good mornin’.’

His Excellency came in, tall and débonnaire, and sat down to breakfast. After him came his private secretary, a pale and anxious young man, who said little, and opened an egg as if he expected to find an important despatch inside it.

‘Any news, Reggie?’ said the Governor, cheerfully rubbing his large white hands together.

‘Fry’s hurt his finger.’

‘Bad luck to it!’

‘Well, Sir Henry,’ said Mr. Cato, beaming away, ‘I’m going to have a good talk with you after breakfast about Prince Dwala.’

‘Too busy, too busy, my dear Sir. You talk it over with Mr. Batts; he knows all about everything.’

The private secretary looked up darkly, and gave a dry nod at Mr. Cato.

‘Rum chap that Prince,’ said Reggie: ‘looks uncommon like a monkey.’

Mr. Cato flushed with indignation.

‘Please don’t talk like that, Mr. Crampton. I know you mean no harm; but it’s just by little remarks like that that we Englishmen nourish that narrow-minded contempt for natives to which we are all of us only too prone.’

‘Dear little things, monkeys,’ murmured the tactful Lady Crampton: ‘my sister used to keep one in Kensington, till it took to hidin’ food in the beds, and had to be given to the Zoo.’

After breakfast Mr. Cato and Mr. Batts retired into a dark chamber, and discussed the question of the Prince’s future. Mr. Batts sat like an eminent specialist, with folded arms and pursed lips, while Mr. Cato expounded his views. Mr. Batts held out great hopes of the Government coming down handsomely.

‘My dear Sir, we couldn’t have chosen a better moment for the application. The Colonial Office is bound to spend its grant by the end of the financial year, under penalty of having it reduced in the next Budget—it’s a Treasury rule. What I’m telling you is a secret, mind; don’t let it go any further. Between you and me, my dear Sir, they’re often glad if some expense of this kind turns up to put their surplus into; and once they’ve got him over, it’s easy enough to get the item renewed year by year. They like native potentates; it’s picturesque and popular. As for preventing white men from going into their country, that is a policy which I can’t accept. It’s opposed to the natives’ own interest: their countries could never be developed without European assistance.’

‘How do you mean “developed,” Mr. Batts?’

‘Well, take the question of gold, for instance. These lazy beggars the Soochings would simply leave it lying useless in the ground, as far as they are concerned. Mind you, I’m not saying that all these Jews and foreigners who start the thing are the most desirable people to carry civilisation among the savages. Providence works for good by very funny means.’

‘But the gold belongs to the Soochings.’

‘Gold or any other commodity belongs by the law of nature to the man who works it. It’s a reward for his industry. That’s in Mill. It’s not by any means such an easy thing working a mine as you might think, especially in a savage country. First of all, there’s the labour difficulty to deal with.’

‘What do you mean by the “labour difficulty”?’

‘Getting labour, of course; native labour to work the mine.’

‘But what are the Europeans doing there, if they’re not going to labour?’

‘You’ve evidently not studied the mining question, my dear Sir. Once the prospecting is over, Europeans don’t dig. That would be very primitive. They have their work pretty well cut out as it is, pegging out their claims and looking after the men to see they don’t steal. Of course they have to get natives to dig for them—Soochings in this case.’

‘But why should the Soochings dig for them?’

‘Why should they, my dear Sir? Why, we’d pretty soon make ’em! But it’s no good arguing these big questions on first principles. We simply follow the policy which has worked so well in other parts of the world.... Now what’s your figure for the Prince’s salary from the Colonial Office?’

‘Well, what do you say to a thousand a year?’

‘Oh, make it two, make it two. That Mandingo man gets two thousand; and we don’t want to have our native princes priced lower than Africans. It’s just these things which fix the status of a Colony in the eyes of London people.’

‘Good; two thousand.’

‘And as big a lump down as we can screw out of them. I’ll instruct His Excellency.’

‘Then he’ll get his ordinary revenue from his subjects?’

‘That won’t amount to much.’

‘And the royalties on the gold?’

‘Don’t count on that. I saw the Chief Justice last night; he’s going to give it against you.’

‘I shall appeal.’

‘To the Privy Council? Well, well: one never knows what will happen when a case gets to the Privy Council.’

VI

Mr. Cato found his path unexpectedly smooth. The Colonial Secretary, delighted at shifting an awkward responsibility on to the shoulders of a political opponent, telegraphed a gracious acceptance of Mr. Cato’s offer to take charge of the Prince. The two thousand a year was promised without bargaining, with another two thousand down for initial expenses. The Colonial Court, it is true, had decided against the Sooching claim, but leave was given to appeal; and Mr. Cato took a lawyer and a packing-case full of evidence with him on board the P. & O. in order to carry the question before the Privy Council.

He had taken up the clubs for Prince Dwala on purely unselfish grounds, but he could not help feeling a personal satisfaction in the results of what he had done. His whole tour had been a success; now that he had seen the various kinds of native whom he had so long championed in Parliament, the rightness of his attitude came home to him with a picturesque forcibleness. He was like a dramatist who had seen all his plays acted one after the other for the first time. And now by this last lucky hit he had put himself over the heads of all his rivals in his own peculiar line of politics. Prince Dwala’s case would be famous; his colleagues would help him trounce the Government for this wicked gold war; the credit of it would be his; every question would come round to him for a final answer; the oppressed native would be sitting at home in his drawing-room. As he lay awake in his bunk he caught himself musing pleasurably over the social distinction which it might involve. Nonsense! A Prince is no better than any other man, or very little. Still, other people think so; it would be amusing to watch their demeanour.

It was no light matter being in charge of a Prince on board ship. Mr. Cato found it best during the daytime to keep him as much as possible in his cabin, where he sat looking patiently out of a port-hole, saying over new words and phrases he had heard, or making cigarettes with the little machine which Mr. Cato carried about with him—a contrivance which inspired him with far greater interest and awe than the complications of the engine-room. It was the best cabin on board, by-the-bye, for the Shanghai merchant had insisted on giving it up to the Prince. It was not that Dwala claimed any outward signs of respect—he was modesty itself; but his presence caused a certain gêne among the other passengers, who were uncertain whether to rise from their seats or not when he entered the reading-room. Then he had no idea of punctuality, and naturally nobody liked to begin dinner until he came in. The sailors had no end of a job enticing him down from the crosstrees, where he had ensconced himself at the sound of the dinner-bell. Then again, the chief steward was nearly frightened out of his wits, when he leaned over his shoulder to offer him potatoes, at the way the Prince grabbed his plate and growled, under the impression that he wanted to take it away from him. The passengers saw but little of him till the last night of the voyage, when they insisted on his presiding at the concert in aid of the Sailors’ Orphanage. They were all immensely impressed by the grave attention with which he listened to the comic songs.

Mr. Cato was very busy all day going through the evidence with the lawyer; and half of every night he spent following the Prince in his swift rambles over the ship, seeing that he did not get into mischief. It was a relief when they landed at last in England.

VII

The first thing Mr. Cato did, when he had settled his guest comfortably at home in Hampstead, under the kindly care of his two sisters, was to go and call on Lord Griffinhoofe, his immediate political leader.

Mr. Cato’s party was divided at this time into many sections. An official leader had at one time been appointed, but in the confusion of politics the party had lost the papers and forgotten his name. The leadership was now divided among a number of eminent men, of whom Lord Griffinhoofe, ex-Cabinet Minister and member of one of the oldest and richest families in England, was not the least. It was generally understood that he would get an important portfolio when a Liberal Government should be formed, and the urbanity of his manner was held to fit him peculiarly for the Foreign Office.

London was out of town when Mr. Cato arrived. The Session was over; but Lord Griffinhoofe was known to have come back on business for a few weeks to his house in Piccadilly. Mr. Cato found the blinds down, and a charwoman washing the steps. He walked in unannounced and entered the well-known reception-room on the ground floor, disguised at present with a furniture of linen bags, enfolding monstrous shapes of large ornaments. Here he found a flushed female, with a bonnet on the side of her head, sitting on one of the long row of leather chairs. She smiled and wagged her feathers and roses at him pleasantly, assuring him that ‘the good gentleman’ would be ‘out in a jiffy.’ Mr. Cato seated himself modestly in a dark corner and waited.

After a little while the inner door opened, and Lord Griffinhoofe himself appeared—a large stout man, with peering short-sighted eyes. He smiled and nodded when he found himself confronted by a curtseying female. Then he cleared his throat, looked in three pockets for his eye-glasses, wiped them, and examined the dirty scrap of paper which he held in his hand.

‘Mrs. Waggs?’ he said.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said the smiling woman in the bonnet; ‘that’s my name, sir, after my dear ’usband who went to the bad.’

‘Well, and what can I do for you?’

‘Mrs. Waggs, my lord, that’s my name. I’ve come to be cook, ’earin’ as you was in want of a temp’ry from my good friend Mrs. ’Amilton, who washes the steps, pore thing, of a Saturday when the other lidy ’as to be at ’ome.’

Lord Griffinhoofe examined the paper very carefully, and cleared his throat again.

‘H’m! It’s very awkward. My wife’s away. I hardly know what to do. You’re a cook, you say?’

‘Mrs. Waggs, my lord. Good plain or fancy with the best of character’s, though short, bein’ a temp’ry.’

‘Can you ... can you dust things, Mrs. Waggs?’

‘Dust? Me dust? No thank you, my lord, not if I know it. Thank ’Eaven, I ’aven’t come down to a duster quite as yet. O no, thank you! Mrs. Waggs, plain or fancy, on the usual terms, but no dustin’, thank you! I’m not an ’ousemaid.’

‘It’s very awkward. So you want to be cook. Can you make pastry?’

‘Anythink in reason, my lord. One doesn’t ask too much of a pore woman with two children and an ’usband in trouble. Pastry is not my fort, nor ’ave I been accustomed to families where pastry was eaten on a large scale.’

‘Well, well. It’s very awkward. The fact is that I have a cook already.’

‘And well you may, my lord, you that might ’ave dozens for the askin’.’ Mrs. Waggs burst into tears. ‘But it’s ’ard on a pore woman that’s trudged miles an’ miles without a drop o’ drink to look for a job, to be told the place is bespoke.’

‘There, there, don’t cry, Mrs. Waggs. I can’t turn my cook out to make a place for you, can I?’

‘An’ my pore ’usband in trouble, ’im that never did an ’ard day’s work in ’is life before.’

Clouds veiled the serenity of Lord Griffinhoofe’s countenance for a little while, then he passed his hand over his face and emerged with a bright idea.

‘How would it be if you saw the cook and had it out with her?’

Mrs. Waggs, paying no direct attention to this proposal, nor to the next proposal to come back in a few days and see what could be done then, but continuing merely to repeat her name and claims, Lord Griffinhoofe finally decided that the best thing he could do was to ring the bell and consult the housekeeper. A lean woman in black presented herself, glanced quickly round, and listened with sour submission while Lord Griffinhoofe explained the situation and its difficulties.

‘Shall I deal with the woman, my lord?’

‘I shall be extremely grateful, Mrs. Porter. I hardly know what to do myself.’

Three short steps brought the housekeeper in front of Mrs. Waggs.

‘Now then, out you go! March!’

Mrs. Waggs quailed and rose obediently.

‘Comin’ here in such a state—the idea!’

The housekeeper shut the front-door behind the visitor, and returned demurely the way she had come.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Porter,’ said Lord Griffinhoofe, with a nervous smile: ‘I thought you would know what was the right thing.... And what can I do for you, Madam?’ he inquired, stumbling on Mr. Cato. ‘What, Mr. Cato! So you’re back. How stupid of them to keep you waiting in here. Come along! Come along!’

He led him into his study beyond.

‘So you’ve come back for the great fight. It’s a secret—I had a wire this morning—you mustn’t tell anyone; we’re within measurable distance of a General Election.’

‘Yes; I saw it in the “Westminster” last night.’

‘Really! How do these papers find out? It came on me quite as a surprise. I’ve been promised—practically promised the—h’m! h’m! It’s a dead secret, mind; you mustn’t let it out.’

‘Why, the “Westminster”....’

‘They had that in too?’

‘No; in fact they mentioned Lord Rosebery.’

‘Bosh!’

‘Only guesswork, of course,’ added Mr. Cato hastily, seeing an uneasy flush on Lord Griffinhoofe’s face. ‘Quite impracticable! Not a man we could work with.’

‘A mere talker!’

‘With the Eastern Question looming....’

‘A man who can’t say No!’

‘Russia needs a firm hand....’

‘Rosebery’s no more capable of managing Russia than I am of managing a ... well, a ... well.... And what was it you came to see me about, Mr. Cato?’

Mr. Cato entered with great detail into all the facts of Prince Dwala’s case. The great man rubbed his fat knees and assumed a sagacious look; his breath came very short, and suddenly he looked as if he were going to cry.

‘Wait a moment, Mr. Cato. If I had a bit of pencil, I should like to put your facts down, so as to get a clear idea. In what year do you say he was born?’

‘I haven’t a notion. These facts aren’t important enough to make a note of.’

‘Then you oughtn’t to tell me them. It only confuses.’

‘The important thing is: how far will the Party help him?’

‘We shall want a pencil for that. It’s such a nuisance my secretary being away. He always has a pencil. He takes his holiday now. Couldn’t we put it off till Parliament assembles?’

‘The matter is urgent.’

‘Everything seems so urgent nowadays,’ Lord Griffinhoofe smiled sadly, as if remembering better days.

‘We must secure the best lawyers at once.’

‘Oh, it’s a law case! I see.’

‘Yes, I’ve told you so already; an appeal to the Privy Council. Colonial appeals go before the Privy Council.’

‘I remember. That’ll be the Judicial Committee, no doubt. Well, can’t they settle it?’

‘That isn’t the point. It’s a most difficult question of law, and everything depends on how the question is argued. We must get the very best counsel we can. The expenses are enormous.’

‘Can’t the ... er ... the what’s his name manage it?’

‘Prince Dwala? We have no right to ask it of him. His fortune is very small, for a Prince; and I look upon the British nation and the Liberal Party as trustees to see that he gets it intact. I myself have already incurred very heavy expenses.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t spend your own money.’

‘That’s just it; I want the Party to help with their funds.’

‘Well, well; if the cause is a good one. We might wait a few months, and see what people think.’

‘But the case will be over.’

‘One can’t help that. We mustn’t rush things.’

Nothing could budge the great man from his attitude of caution and delay. It was evident that, in the absence of his secretary with the pencil, he conceived only the vaguest idea of the question in hand. Mr. Cato went home at last, expressing the heroic resolution to fight the case on his own money, even if it ruined him.

VIII

Mr. Cato’s work was no light matter. He followed the case in every stage; he explained it all to the solicitors, and re-explained it to different layers of barristers. Every new document was submitted to him for revision. He was tormented all the time by anxiety for the future; his fortune was not a large one, and he had to reduce his capital to a very serious extent in order to meet the preliminary expenses of the case. The Prince, his guest, must indeed miss no comfort in his house; but in every other respect he enjoined the strictest economy on his sisters.

There were other things also to be thought of. The Prince’s ignorance on many subjects was astonishing; his questions showed it. This was, of course, natural in a native; but if he was to be a social success in England, then, in spite of his age, it was necessary that he should have some education. The Prince raised no objection. He had taken quite a fancy to Miss Briscoe, who appeared at first in the character of a guest at lunch, with no suggestion of the governess about her. A big genial woman of fifty, with thick black eyebrows, and an indomitable belief in the Christian fellowship of all men in this wonderful world, she brought light into Dwala’s life.

For it must be confessed that the Prince’s first impression of this long-desired civilisation was one of disappointment. It was undoubtedly dull in Mr. Cato’s house. Mr. Cato was out all day; and though his aunt was a dear old lady in her way, and his sisters two of the most charitable creatures in the neighbourhood, nobody would have called them lively company for a Missing Link. The indoor life told upon his health; the clockwork regularity of the daily round and the entire absence of events reduced his spirits to the lowest depth. He had been accustomed in his childhood to the happy vicissitudes of forest life; to the pleasure of escaping thunderstorms and beasts of prey; to the relief of calm sleep after weeks of storm-rocked trees; to the wild delight after long hunger of finding more than he could eat. It maddened him to hear these old ladies chattering over tiny pulsations of monotony as it they were events; to hear them discussing the paltry British weather under an impervious roof; to hear them talk of burglars in the next parish as if they were tigers on the lower branches; to learn that Julia’s quarrel with Mrs. Armstrong had ended in changing her doctor, when he had pictured her tearing handfuls of fur out of Mrs. Armstrong’s back. He longed to throttle the smug butcher who brought the daily tray of meat, robbing life of all the pleasure of desire.

When he first arrived the Prince had been so easily amused. It was enough for him to sit at a window and watch the men mending the road; to follow the housemaid from room to room and see her make the beds; to help to screw a leaf into the dining-room table; to dust Mr. Cato’s books. It was, therefore, a great surprise to his host when he blurted this out one evening. Had it been one of his nephews from the country—his youngest sister married the Rector of Woolcombing—Mr. Cato would have known what to do; he would have treated him to some of those amusements which are provided for country nephews; taken him to the British Museum, South Kensington, the Tower of London, or the College of Mining in Jermyn Street; he would have contrived little outings on omnibuses, ending with tea at an Aërated Bread shop. But the Prince seemed too old for these things; the weather was bad; Mr. Cato was busy, and he had determined to keep him at Hampstead till things had settled down and he knew his proper social value.

IX

That was one of Mr. Cato’s chief preoccupations. What was the Prince’s social station in England? How much deference might be demanded of the world? Who were the people to whose company he had a natural right? One must neither prejudice his future by assuming too low a value for him, nor expose him to any rebuff by claiming too much.

The question was one beyond Mr. Cato’s own competence. His thoughts turned to his nephew Pendred. Not a country nephew this, with any implication of humbleness. Quite the contrary; Pendred Lillico, ex-Lieutenant of the Grenadiers, son of Mr. Cato’s half-sister, who had married a hitherto obscure baronet in the days of her beauty. Pendred was a dancing man, a well-known man, a pattern of manners, an arbiter of fashions. They rarely met: Mr. Cato was secretly afraid of his nephew; Pendred seldom had occasion to boast of his uncle.

He arrived on his motor-car—small, fair, translucent, admirable. The occasion suited him. Appreciation was his métier—appreciation of frocks, laces, china, women, men. He knew hallmarks, pottery-marks, marks of breeding, marks of coming success. Mr. Cato passed the morning before his arrival in a restless state; he was nervous as to the verdict.

‘How much a year, do you say?’ asked Pendred, in his touching little glass voice.

‘Two thousand.’

‘H’m ... Borneo.... Can I see him?’

‘But that makes no difference, does it?’

‘It’s everything.’

‘But, surely dukes and millionaires aren’t estimated on their personal value?’

‘Oh, once you get into big figures!’

‘But a man’s social value....’

‘Social value, my dear uncle, is human value.’

‘Well, I’m delighted to hear it.’

‘On two thousand a year, that is.... Well, let’s see your man. I think I shall be able to give you an opinion.’

Prince Dwala was seated in an armchair in the library—nursing the fire, remote, abstracted. So abstracted that he took no notice of their entrance. Pendred put his head on one side and tried to sketch a rough estimate; he was puzzled. He put his head on the other side and attempted a new valuation. Mr. Cato touched the Prince on the shoulder.

‘I’ve brought you my nephew to make your acquaintance.’

Dwala gave a long sigh and looked up.

‘Nephew ... what’s a nephew?’

‘This is my nephew,’ said Mr. Cato, presenting Pendred, who stepped delicately forward, smiling, with hand extended.

The Prince drew him towards himself. Then suddenly, without any warning, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he took him up in his arms and carried him to the light to make a better examination. Mr. Cato stood petrified. Pendred lay perfectly still, looking up with frightened blue eyes. Dwala seated himself on the edge of the table by the window, and put Pendred on his knee. It was the first finished product of civilisation that he had seen, perfect at every point. He smelt him; he stroked his hair and ears; he felt the fineness of his clothes; and growled a deep guttural growl of delight.

‘I should like to have a nephew, too.’

‘Put him down, put him down,’ cried Mr. Cato, finding voice: ‘you mustn’t treat Pendred like that!’

Dwala glided obediently off the table, set Pendred on a chair, and crouched at his feet looking up.

‘Does it talk?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. Of course he does. Pendred’s a terrible chatterbox. He’ll talk your head off.’

‘Please make it talk.’

‘How can he talk when you frighten him to death like that?’

‘Don’t be absurd, Uncle Wyndham,’ said Pendred plaintively: ‘I’m not at all frightened, thank you.’ He pulled out his case of gold-tipped cigarettes, and lighted one, at which Dwala growled again and clapped his hands.

‘Did you have a jolly voyage? I hear you were quite a lion on board. Terrible long journey. Awful bore travellin’. What do you think of England?’

‘Pretty voice! pretty voice!’ said the Prince, stroking one of his little boots. ‘Will it eat? He pulled a biscuit out of his pocket and put it up to Pendred’s lips. Pendred slipped his legs away and jumped up.

‘No, thanks awfully. I must be gettin’ home. People to tea. Awful bore.’ And with this he bolted straight out of the door and through the house to his motor-car, which was snorting and jumping up and down outside, in charge of a man in shiny black surrounded by a crowd of ragamuffins. He was half-way down the road when Mr. Cato emerged in pursuit.

The Prince sat by the fire, nodding his head in high spirits, and ejaculating: ‘Awful bore! Awful bore!’

‘How dare you?’ said Mr. Cato, coming in a moment later, and shutting the door behind him.

‘Dare what?’

‘How dare you treat my nephew like that? Pendred! A gentleman! A future baronet! Here am I, working my fingers to the bone to get justice done to you—at it night and day, spending my substance, sacrificing everything—and then, when I invite my nephew out here, who might have helped you in your London career, you treat him like that! You drive him out of the house—he even forgot his gloves.’

‘I liked him. I wanted to keep him.’

‘You treat him like a child, like a plaything, a doll. You forget that he is a man.’