"Silverous forks require lubrication for evening repast," said Ali

reproachfully.

Bones stalked on to his study.

It was a lovely study, with a carpet of beautiful blue. It was a study

of which a man might be proud. The hangings were of silk, and the

suite was also of silk, and also of blue silk. He sat down at his

Louis XVI. table, took a virgin pad, and began to write. The

inspiration was upon him, and he worked at top speed.

"I saw a litle bird--a litle bird--a litle bird, floating in the sky,"

he wrote. "Ever so high! Its pretty song came down, down to me, and

it sounded like your voice the other afternoon at tea, at tea. And in

its flite I remembered the night when you came home to me."

He paused at the last, because Marguerite Whitland had never come home

to him, certainly not at night. The proprieties had to be observed,

and he changed the last few lines to: "I remember the day when you came

away to Margate on the sea, on the sea."

He had not seen his book of poems for a week, but there was a blank

page at the end into which the last, and possibly the greatest, might

go. He pulled the drawer open. It was empty. There was no mistaking

the fact that that had been the drawer in which the poems had reposed,

because Bones had a very excellent memory.

He rang the bell and Ali came, his Oxford shirt and braces imperfectly

hidden under a jersey which had seen better days.

"Ali"--and this time Bones spoke rapidly and in Coast Arabic--"in this

drawer was a beautiful book in which I had written many things."

Ali nodded.

"Master, that I know, for you are a great poet, and I speak your

praises whenever I go into the café, for Hafiz did not write more

beautifully than you."

"What the dooce," spluttered Bones in English, "do you mean by telling

people about me--eh, you scoundrel? What the dooce do you mean by it,

you naughty old ebony?"

"Master," said All "eulogistic speechification creates admiration in

common minds."

He was so unruffled, so complacent, that Bones, could only look at him

in wonder. There was, too, about Ali Mahomet a queer look of guilty

satisfaction, as of one who had been surprised in a good act.

"Master," he said, "it is true that, contrary to modest desires of

humble poets, I have offered praises of your literature to unauthorised

persons, sojourning in high-class café 'King's Arms,' for my evening

refreshment. Also desiring to create pleasant pleasure and surprise,

your servant from his own emoluments authorised preparation of said

poems in real print work."

Bones gasped.

"You were going to get my things printed? Oh, you ... oh, you...."




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