ing, came in at the kitchen door, and stood
looking at them. "I sent this young man to the li'l meesis, for that he
was hurt and in pain, and I know the fat woman is kind, and has the
brassic-acid." He glanced at Lal Chunder's bandaged wrist, and shot a
quick question at him in their own tongue, to which the other
responded. The old man turned back to Norah, not without dignity.

"We thank the l'il meesis," he said. "Lal Chunder is as my son: he
cannot speak, but he will not forget."

"Oh, that's all right," said Norah, turning a lively red. "It wasn't
anything, really, Ram Das--and his wrist was terribly sore. You'll both
camp here to-night, won't you? And have some tea--I'm sure you want it,
it's so hot."

"It will be good," said Ram Das, gratefully, sitting down. Then voices
and the sound of hoofs and the chink of bits came from outside; and
presently Mr. Linton and the boys came in, hot and thirsty.

Cecil's eyebrows went up as he beheld his cousin carrying a cup to the
stout old Hindu.

"It's the most extraordinary place I was ever at," he told himself
later, dressing for dinner, in the seclusion of his own room. From the
garden below came shouts and laughter, as Jim engaged Norah and Wally
in a strenuous set on the tennis court. "Absolutely no class limits
whatever, and no restrictions--why, she kept me waiting for my second
cup while she looked after that fat old black in the dirty white
turban! As for the boys--childish young hoodlums. Well, thank goodness
I'm not condemned to Billabong all my days!" With which serene
reflection Mr. Cecil Linton adjusted his tie nicely, smoothed a
refractory strand of hair in his forelock, and went down to dinner.

CHAPTER XII

OF POULTRY

A man would soon wonder how it's done,
The stock so soon decreases!
A. B. PATERSON

"Where are you off to, Norah?"

"To feed the chickens."

"May I come with you, my pretty maid?"

"Delighted!" said Norah. "Here's a load for you."

"Even to stagger under thy kerosene tin were ever a joy!" responded
Wally, seizing the can of feed as he spoke--the kerosene tin of the
bush, that serves so many purposes, from bucket to cooking stove, and
may end its days as a flower pot, or, flattened out, as roofing iron.
"Anyhow, you oughtn't to carry this thing, Norah; it's too heavy. Why
will you be such a goat?"

Under this direct query, put plaintively, Norah had the grace to look
abashed.

"Well, I don't, as a rule,