No More Learning

"

This, as will be conceded by any one who knows Mirza Ali Beg's book, was
a sweeping statement. The papers did not look specially valuable; but
McIntosh handled them as if they were currency-notes.

Then he said slowly:--"In despite the many weaknesses of your education,
you have been good to me. I will speak of your tobacco when I reach the
Gods. I owe you much thanks for many kindnesses.

"But I abominate indebtedness. For this reason I bequeath to you now the
monument more enduring than brass--my one book--rude and imperfect in
parts, but oh, how rare in others! I wonder if you will understand it.
It is a gift more honorable than. . . Bah! where is my brain rambling
to? You will mutilate it horribly. You will knock out the gems you call
'Latin quotations,' you Philistine, and you will butcher the style to
carve into your own jerky jargon; but you cannot destroy the whole of
it.
I bequeath it to you.

"Ethel. . . My brain again! . . Mrs. McIntosh, bear witness that I give
the sahib all these papers. They would be of no use to you, Heart of my
heart; and I lay it upon you," he turned to me here, "that you do not
let my book die in its present form. It is yours unconditionally--the
story of McIntosh Jellaludin, which is NOT the story of McIntosh
Jellaludin, but of a greater man than he, and of a far greater woman.
Listen now! I am neither mad nor drunk! That book will make you famous. "

I said, "thank you," as the native woman put the bundle into my arms.

"My only baby!