Part 116 (1/2)

”By Kismet and our own powers, more's the pity. I have dreamed of a good deal.”

”So have I, but we know our limitations now. I'm dashed if I know what d.i.c.k's may be when he gives himself to his work. That's what makes me so keen about him.”

”And when all's said and done, you will be put aside--quite rightly--for a female girl.”

”I wonder... Where do you think he has been today?”

”To the sea. Didn't you see the look in his eyes when he talked about her? He's as restless as a swallow in autumn.”

”Yes; but did he go alone?”

”I don't know, and I don't care, but he has the beginnings of the go-fever upon him. He wants to up-stakes and move out. There's no mistaking the signs. Whatever he may have said before, he has the call upon him now.”

”It might be his salvation,” Torpenhow said.

”Perhaps--if you care to take the responsibility of being a saviour.”

d.i.c.k returned with the big clasped sketch-book that the Nilghai knew well and did not love too much. In it d.i.c.k had drawn all manner of moving incidents, experienced by himself or related to him by the others, of all the four corners of the earth. But the wider range of the Nilghai's body and life attracted him most. When truth failed he fell back on fiction of the wildest, and represented incidents in the Nilghai's career that were unseemly,--his marriages with many African princesses, his shameless betrayal, for Arab wives, of an army corps to the Mahdi, his tattooment by skilled operators in Burmah, his interview (and his fears) with the yellow headsman in the blood-stained execution-ground of Canton, and finally, the pa.s.sings of his spirit into the bodies of whales, elephants, and toucans. Torpenhow from time to time had added rhymed descriptions, and the whole was a curious piece of art, because d.i.c.k decided, having regard to the name of the book which being interpreted means ”naked,” that it would be wrong to draw the Nilghai with any clothes on, under any circ.u.mstances. Consequently the last sketch, representing that much-enduring man calling on the War Office to press his claims to the Egyptian medal, was hardly delicate.

He settled himself comfortably on Torpenhow's table and turned over the pages.

”What a fortune you would have been to Blake, Nilghai!” he said.

”There's a succulent pinkness about some of these sketches that's more than life-like. 'The Nilghai surrounded while bathing by the Mahdieh'--that was founded on fact, eh?”

”It was very nearly my last bath, you irreverent dauber. Has Binkie come into the Saga yet?”

”No; the Binkie-boy hasn't done anything except eat and kill cats.

Let's see. Here you are as a stained-gla.s.s saint in a church. Deuced decorative lines about your anatomy; you ought to be grateful for being handed down to posterity in this way. Fifty years hence you'll exist in rare and curious facsimiles at ten guineas each. What shall I try this time? The domestic life of the Nilghai?”

”Hasn't got any.”

”The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. Of course. Ma.s.s-meeting of his wives in Trafalgar Square. That's it. They came from the ends of the earth to attend Nilghai's wedding to an English bride. This shall be an epic. It's a sweet material to work with.”

”It's a scandalous waste of time,” said Torpenhow.

”Don't worry; it keeps one's hand in--specially when you begin without the pencil.” He set to work rapidly. ”That's Nelson's Column. Presently the Nilghai will appear s.h.i.+nning up it.”

”Give him some clothes this time.”

”Certainly--a veil and an orange-wreath, because he's been married.”

”Gad, that's clever enough!” said Torpenhow over his shoulder, as d.i.c.k brought out of the paper with three twirls of the brush a very fat back and labouring shoulder pressed against stone.

”Just imagine,” d.i.c.k continued, ”if we could publish a few of these dear little things every time the Nilghai subsidises a man who can write, to give the public an honest opinion of my pictures.”

”Well, you'll admit I always tell you when I have done anything of that kind. I know I can't hammer you as you ought to be hammered, so I give the job to another. Young Maclagan, for instance----”

”No-o--one half-minute, old man; stick your hand out against the dark of the wall-paper--you only burble and call me names. That left shoulder's out of drawing. I must literally throw a veil over that. Where's my pen-knife? Well, what about Maclagan?”

”I only gave him his riding-orders to--to lambast you on general principles for not producing work that will last.”