Part 20 (1/2)

d.i.c.k crammed head and shoulders out of the window and looked across the river. Torpenhow came to his side, while the Nilghai pa.s.sed over quietly to the piano and opened it. Binkie, making himself as large as possible, spread out upon the sofa with the air of one who is not to be lightly disturbed.

'Well,' said the Nilghai to the two pairs of shoulders, 'have you never seen this place before?'

A steam-tug on the river hooted as she towed her barges to wharf. Then the boom of the traffic came into the room. Torpenhow nudged d.i.c.k.

'Good place to bank in--bad place to bunk in, d.i.c.kie, isn't it?'

d.i.c.k's chin was in his hand as he answered, in the words of a general not without fame, still looking out on the darkness--'”My G.o.d, what a city to loot!”'

Binkie found the night air tickling his whiskers and sneezed plaintively.

'We shall give the Binkie-dog a cold,' said Torpenhow. 'Come in,' and they withdrew their heads. 'You'll be buried in Kensal Green, d.i.c.k, one of these days, if it isn't closed by the time you want to go there--buried within two feet of some one else, his wife and his family.'

'Allah forbid! I shall get away before that time comes. Give a man room to stretch his legs, Mr. Binkie.' d.i.c.k flung himself down on the sofa and tweaked Binkie's velvet ears, yawning heavily the while.

'You'll find that wardrobe-case very much out of tune,' Torpenhow said to the Nilghai. 'It's never touched except by you.'

'A piece of gross extravagance,' d.i.c.k grunted. 'The Nilghai only comes when I'm out.'

'That's because you're always out. Howl, Nilghai, and let him hear.'

'The life of the Nilghai is fraud and slaughter, His writings are watered d.i.c.kens and water; But the voice of the Nilghai raised on high Makes even the Mahdieh glad to die!'

d.i.c.k quoted from Torpenhow's letterpress in the Nungapunga Book.

'How do they call moose in Canada, Nilghai?'

The man laughed. Singing was his one polite accomplishment, as many Press-tents in far-off lands had known.

'What shall I sing?' said he, turning in the chair.

'”Moll Roe in the Morning,”' said Torpenhow, at a venture.

'No,' said d.i.c.k, sharply, and the Nilghai opened his eyes. The old chanty whereof he, among a very few, possessed all the words was not a pretty one, but d.i.c.k had heard it many times before without wincing.

Without prelude he launched into that stately tune that calls together and troubles the hearts of the gipsies of the sea--

'Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.'

d.i.c.k turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could hear the bows of the Barralong cras.h.i.+ng into the green seas on her way to the Southern Cross.

Then came the chorus--

'We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors, We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas, Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly 'tis forty-five leagues.'

'Thirty-five-thirty-five,' said d.i.c.k, petulantly. 'Don't tamper with Holy Writ. Go on, Nilghai.'

'The first land we made it was called the Deadman,' and they sang to the end very vigourously.

'That would be a better song if her head were turned the other way--to the Ushant light, for instance,' said the Nilghai.

'Flinging his arms about like a mad windmill,' said Torpenhow. 'Give us something else, Nilghai. You're in fine fog-horn form tonight.'