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"It's my birfday to-day," observed the junior. "I just said so." "That you didn't, Major Thahib. This is a thword. Father's charger's got an over-weach. Jumping. He says it's a dam-nuithanth." "Oh, that's a sword, is it? And 'Fire' has got an over-reach. And it's a qualified nuisance, is it?" "Yeth, and the mare is coughing and her thythe is a blathted fool for letting her catch cold."
Who knows about them?" "I don't know, Major Thahib. Gunnoo sells 'Fire's' gram to the methrani for her curry and chuppatties." "But how do you know swords are like this? That thing isn't a pukka sword." "Well, it'th like Thir Theymour Thtukeley's in my dweam." "What dream?" "The one I'm alwayth dweaming. They have got long hair like Nurse in the night, and they fight and fight like anything.
"Thir Theymour Thtukeley Thahib tellth Thir Matthew Thahib about the hilt-thwust. 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.
"Good morrow, gentle Damocles," he remarked, entering the big verandah adown which the chubby boy pranced gleefully to meet his beloved friend, shouting a welcome, and brandishing a sword designed, and largely constructed, by himself from a cleaning-rod, a tobacco-tin lid, a piece of wood, card-board and wire. "Thalaam, Major Thahib," he said, flinging himself bodily upon that gentleman.
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