How can his name do any such thing! Pure bosh; I knew it!"

"Play the game and don't argue. You've only to cap Lister's brilliant line, 'The-sh.o.r.es-of-the-vast-lake-re-sound-with-sobs--' syllable by syllable. Come along."

"I can't rhyme with 'sobs'. The only rhyme I know is 'lobs'; used to bowl 'em at Winchester forty odd years ago; 'sobs', 'lobs'--can't bring it in anyhow.

'The sh.o.r.es of the vast lake resound with sobs--'"

He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin.

"'The wapping waves exclaim, where's Thing-um-bobs?'"

put in Tom quietly, and Mr. Barkworth's protest that he didn't call that translating was drowned in laughter.

It was some weeks later. The scene was the breakfast-room at The Orchard, Winterslow. Lilian was already at the head of the table by the steaming urn, Tom was cutting a rose in the garden, and Sir John standing with his hands in his pockets at the open French window. He had come down overnight to spend a week with his old friend, whose guest Tom had been ever since his arrival in England.

"Kept you waiting, eh?" said Mr. Barkworth, coming in briskly, his rubicund face aglow. "Glorious morning. Letters not arrived yet? Ah!

here they are. One for Tom; foreign post-mark. Hi!" he shouted. "Come along; letter for you. Bacon's getting cold."

Tom entered, cut the big square envelope, read the contents, and pa.s.sed it to his uncle.

"That's the third," he said with a smile. He was quite the old Tom once more, bright-eyed, fresh-coloured, supple as ever; a little older in looks, to be sure, with an air of manliness and grit that rejoiced Sir John's heart.

"Another offer? Come, that's capital. Who is it this time, Burnaby?"

"The King of the Belgians, by George! His secretary offers Tom a commission in the Free State forces, with a very prettily-turned compliment."

"How proud you'll be, Mr. Burnaby!" said Lilian.

"Proud! Not he!" retorted her father. "He won't accept that, or I'm a Dutchman."

"It's a little embarra.s.sing, though," said Tom. "People are very kind.

A crib in Nigeria a week ago, then one in Rhodesia, and now one in the Congo Free State!"

"Don't be in a hurry, Tom," said his uncle. "I had a long talk with Underwood of the Foreign Office yesterday. There's some idea of--but I won't give it away. Only I'll say this: that I don't think it'll be either Rhodesia or Nigeria, much less the Congo."

"I'm in no hurry, Uncle; it's very comfortable here, and a few months'

rest will do me all the good in the world."

"Really!" returned Sir John, with a significant glance at Lilian. "By the way, I suppose you haven't seen Desjardins' latest article in the Paris _Figaro_? I have it in my pocket. He's running you for all you're worth--and more--as a world-hero, Tom. Here it is."

He handed a newspaper cutting to Tom. As he replaced a pile of papers in his pocket, a folded sheet fell to the floor. He picked it up, casually opened it, scanned it, and smiled.

"Now I think of it, Barkworth," he said, "we never showed you on the boat the second stanza of the little Frenchman's effusion, did we?"

"Oh, you really mustn't!" cried Lilian, starting up and flushing.

"What! what!" said her father. "Another verse of that rubbish! Let me see it."

Sir John handed him the paper; he put on his spectacles, and Lilian, throwing a reproachful look at Sir John, fled to the garden, while Tom tilted back his chair and laughed a little awkwardly. Mr. Barkworth pursed up his mouth and frowned.

"Why, hang it!" he cried, "here's my daughter's name! What does the wretched little man mean by writing my daughter's name! What's the meaning of it, Burnaby? I can't read the stuff."

"I'll read it to you:

'Tu vas, comble de gloire, ill.u.s.trer ta patrie: Tu vas briser des coeurs, et provoquer l'envie.

Quel ange te conduit par dela l'ocean?-- La mer repond tout bas, murmurant "Lilian"'.

Perhaps Tom will oblige by translating."

"Not I, sir; I think you'll do it best. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and----"

"Yes, go and find her, certainly, my boy."

"Well now, Burnaby, just translate, please. There appears to be some mystery here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it, h'm!"

"You must make allowances for a Frenchman's sentiment, you know, Barkworth. What he says is something to this effect: 'Covered with glory, you're going to shed l.u.s.tre on your country, and there you'll break all the girls' hearts and make all the boys jealous. What angel is wafting you over the ocean?'--A little high-falutin, you see. It ends--'And the sea whispers the name----'"

"Confound his impudence!" broke in Mr. Barkworth. "What right----what are you laughing at, Burnaby? Why--G.o.d bless me, you don't mean there's anything in it? Eh? What? 'Gad, I'm delighted, delighted, immensely pleased, old man!--Look at them in the garden, Jack; aren't they a fine couple, now!"

"They're rather young yet, Barkworth, eh?"

"Young! Of course they're young. Makes me young again myself to see them there, G.o.d bless them! Call 'em in; I must shake hands with Tom, the young dog; I know him!"

"I'd let 'em alone if I were you, Barkworth. Come round to the stables, and I'll tell you what Underwood said to me."

_It is early morning in Zanzibar. The Arab quarter is scarcely astir; there are few pa.s.sengers in its narrow tortuous lanes, with their square houses, each standing aloof, dark, repellent, prison-like for all its whitewash. But in the market-place the slant rays of the sun light up a busy scene. In and out among the booths of the merchants and the unsheltered heaps in which the lesser traders expose their wares, moves a jostling crowd--negroes of Zanzibar; visitors from the coast tribes; Somalis from the north; Banyamwesi, even Baganda and Banyoro, from the far interior--chattering, chaffering, haggling in a hundred variants of the Swahili tongue. Now and again the half-naked crowd parts to make way for a grave stately Arab in spotless white, with voluminous turban, or for some Muscat donkey whose well-laden panniers usurp the narrow s.p.a.ce._

_Suddenly above the hum of the market rises a strident voice. The wayfarers turn, and see a gaunt, bent, hollow-eyed figure in mendicant rags; standing on a carpet at the entrance of an alley, he has begun to harangue with the fervour of madness all who choose to hear._

"_Hearken, ye faithful, sons of the Prophet, hearken while I tell of the shame that has befallen Islam! Verily, the day of our calamity has come upon us! Woe unto us! woe unto us! The hand of our foes is heavy upon us; they lie in wait for us, even as a lion for harts in the desert.

Wallahi! the land was ours, from the sun's rising unto its setting, from the marge of the sea unto the uttermost verge of the Forest. Where now are all they that went forth, and in the name of Allah got them riches and slaves? Where are the leaders of old--Hamed ben Juna the mighty, Sefu his son strong in battle, yea, and the great Rumaliza? All, all are gone! I alone am left, even I, the least of their servants. The Ferangi--defiled be their graves!--shall they afflict us for ever? Are we dogs, that here, even here in our birthplace, the land of our fathers, we slink from the foot of the infidel? Awake, awake, O ye slothful! Haste ye! haste ye! Smite the Ferangi and spare not! Grind them into the dust; yea, crush them, destroy them utterly. Do ye linger or doubt? Behold, I will lead you! Lo, my sword!--is it not red with infidel blood? Let us sweep like the whirlwind upon them; like the lightnings of Allah will we rend and consume them. They that pollute our land shall be stricken, and none shall be left, no, not one alive for the wailing. By the beard of the Prophet I swear it!_"

"_Essalam alekam!_" _says a Somali in respectful greeting to a venerable seller of sweetmeats_. "_Who is he, O Giver of Delight?_"

"_Knowest thou not, O Lion of the Desert? He is a mad nebi from the Great Forest afar._"

"_Mashallah! And his name, O Kneader of Joy?_"

"_Men call him Mustapha._"