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Like a flash the rat leapt, scampered over Laxdale's helmet, down his back and took refuge in the breast-pocket of Wilmshurst's tunic. Dudley beat all records in slipping off his Sam Browne and discarding the tunic, for by the time his companion had regained his feet the garment lay on the floor. "Stamp on it!" yelled the now thoroughly excited and exasperated subaltern.
Dudley looked enquiringly at his cabin-mate, knowing that Mutton Chop was Laxdale's servant. "Oh, so that rascal's the culprit," declared Laxdale. "Didn't I say I thought so?" "Bring Mutton Chop here," ordered Wilmshurst, addressing the broadly smiling Tari Barl. The Haussa vanished, presently to reappear with almost an exact counterpart of himself.
It would be a difficult matter for a stranger to tell the difference between the two natives. "What d'ye mean, you black scoundrel, by putting a rat into my traps?" demanded Laxdale. "No did put, sah; him lib for come one time," expostulated Laxdale's servant. "Me play, 'Come to cook-house door, den him catchee." Producing a small native flute Mutton Chop began to play a soft air.
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