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"Something's up," grumbled Heywood, "when the doctor forgets to pose." Behind Chantel, as he wheeled, heaved the gray bullet-head and sturdy shoulders of Gilly. "Alone?" called the padre. "Why, where's the Mem?" He came up with evident weariness, but replied cheerfully: "She's very sorry, and sent chin-chins all round. But to-night Her journey, you know. She's resting.
He leaned forward, white and eager, waiting for the truth like a dicer for the final throw. "Of yourself, dear old chap. Not of the lady. She's the fool, not you. Poor old Gilly Forrester slaves here to send her junketing in Japan, Kashmir, Ceylon, Home. What Chantel said well, between the two of us, I'm afraid he's right. It's a pity." Heywood paused, frowning. "A pity, too, this quarrel.
Their ponies whinnying like old friends, they met, by chance or appointment, before the power of sleep had lifted from eyes still new and strange against the morning. Sometimes Chantel the handsome rode glowering beside them, sometimes Gilly, erect and solid in the saddle, laid upon their talk all the weight of his honest, tired commonplaces.
Gradually the rats, silent and leaping, passed away into the darkness, as though they heard the summons of a Pied Piper. "It doesn't attack Europeans." Heywood still used that curious inflection. "Then my brother Julien is still alive," retorted Doctor Chantel, bitterly. "What do you think, Gilly?" persisted Heywood. His compatriot nodded in a meaningless way.
He took the stool in leap-frog fashion, and struck a droll simultaneous discord. "Come on. Well, then, catch me on the chorus!" "Pour qu' j' finisse Mon service Au Tonkin je suis parti!" To a discreet set of verses, he rattled a bravado accompaniment. Presently Chantel moved to his side, and, with the same spirit, swung into the chorus.
I hope we've not delayed the concert?" "Last man starts it!" Heywood sprang up, flung open a battered piano, and dragged Chantel to the stool. "Come, Gilly, your forfeit!" The elder man blushed, and coughed. "Why, really," he stammered. "Really, if you wish me to!" Heywood slid back into his chair, grinning. "Proud as an old peacock," he whispered to Rudolph. "Peacock's voice, too." Dr.
But iss Rome yet a fortify town?" Chantel rapped out a Parisian oath. "Do we play cards," he cried sourly, "or listen to the chatter of senility?" Heywood held to the previous question. "No, Wutz, that town's no longer fortified," he answered slowly. "Geese live there, still, as in many other places." Dr.
"Rigmarole?" drawled Heywood, and abstained from glancing at Chantel. "Dare say. However, Gilly, their rigmarole may mean business. On that supposition, I made my notes urgent to you chaps." "Quite right," said Mr. Forrester, tugging his gray moustache, and studying the floor. "Obviously. Rigmarole or not, your plan is thoroughly sound: stock one house, and if the pinch comes, fortify."
Without waiting for answer, she bent once more to sort and discard her pitiful treasures, to pause vaguely, consider, and wring her hands. Rudolph, in his turn, caught her by the arm, but fared no better. "We must humor her," whispered Chantel, and, kneeling like a peddler among the bazaar-stuffs, spread on the floor a Java sarong, blue and brown, painted with men and buffaloes.
The hilts rang, the blades grated faster. But now it was plain that Heywood could do no more, by luck or inspiration. Fretted by his clumsy yet strong and close defense, Chantel was forcing on the end. He gave a panting laugh.
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