No More Learning

Regimental shop as usual.

Mrs. G. The Regiment! Always the Regiment. On my word, I sometimes feel
jealous of Mafflin.

Capt. G. (Wearily. ) Poor old Jack? I don't think you need. Isn't it time
for The Butcha to have his nap? Bring a chair out here, dear. I've got
some thing to talk over with you.

THIS IS THE END OF THE STORY OF THE GADSBYS





VOLUME VIII from MINE OWN PEOPLE

Bimi
Namgay Doola
The Recrudescence Of Imray
Moti Guj--Mutineer




BIMI

THE orangoutang in the big iron cage lashed to the sheep-pen began the
discussion.
The night was stiflingly hot, and as Hans Breitmann and I
passed him, dragging our bedding to the fore-peak of the steamer, he
roused himself and chattered obscenely. He had been caught somewhere in
the Malayan Archipelago, and was going to England to be exhibited at a
shilling a head. For four days he had struggled, yelled, and wrenched at
the heavy iron bars of his prison without ceasing, and had nearly slain
a Lascar incautious enough to come within reach of the great hairy paw.

"It would be well for you, mine friend, if you was a liddle seasick,"
said Hans Breitmann, pausing by the cage. "You haf too much Ego in your
Cosmos. "

The orangoutang's arm slid out negligently from between the bars. No one
would have believed that it would make a sudden snake-like rush at
the German's breast. The thin silk of the sleeping-suit tore out: Hans
stepped back unconcernedly, to pluck a banana from a bunch hanging close
to one of the boats.

"Too much Ego," said he, peeling the fruit and offering it to the caged
devil, who was rending the silk to tatters.

Then we laid out our bedding in the bows, among the sleeping Lascars,
to catch any breeze that the pace of the ship might give us. The sea was
like smoky oil, except where it turned to fire under our forefoot
and whirled back into the dark in smears of dull flame. There was a
thunderstorm some miles away: we could see the glimmer of the lightning.
The ship's cow, distressed by the heat and the smell of the ape-beast in
the cage, lowed unhappily from time to time in exactly the same key as
the lookout man at the bows answered the hourly call from the bridge.
The trampling tune of the engines was very distinct, and the jarring
of the ash-lift, as it was tipped into the sea, hurt the procession of
hushed noise. Hans lay down by my side and lighted a good-night cigar.
This was naturally the beginning of conversation.