he people in Madras with a long pole--as you stir up stench
in a pond--and the people had to come up out of their comfortable old
ways and gasp:--"This is Enlightenment and progress. Isn't it fine!"
Then they gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of
getting rid of him.

Mellishe came up to Simla "to confer with the Viceroy." That was one of
his perquisites. The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he was
"one of those middle-class deities who seem necessary to the spiritual
comfort of this Paradise of the Middle-classes," and that, in all
probability, he had "suggested, designed, founded, and endowed all the
public institutions in Madras." Which proves that His Excellency, though
dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thousand-rupee men.

Mellishe's name was E. Mellishe and Mellish's was E. S. Mellish, and
they were both staying at the same hotel, and the Fate that looks after
the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should blunder and drop the final
"e;" that the Chaprassi should help him, and that the note which ran:
"Dear Mr. Mellish.--Can you set aside your other engagements and lunch
with us at two to-morrow? His Excellency has an hour at your disposal
then," should be given to Mellish with the Fumigatory. He nearly wept
with pride and delight, and at the appointed hour cantered off to
Peterhoff, a big paper-bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail
pockets. He had his chance, and he meant to make the most of
it. Mellishe of Madras had been so portentously solemn about his
"conference," that Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin--no A.-D.
C.'s, no Wonder, no one but the Viceroy, who said plaintively that he
feared being left alone with unmuzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe
of Madras.

But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On the contrary, he amused him.
Mellish was nervously anxious to go straight to his Fumigatory, and
talked at random until tiffin was over and His Excellency asked him
to smoke. The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish because he did not talk
"shop."

As soon as the cheroots were lit, Mellish spoke like a man; beginning
with his cholera-theory, reviewing his fifteen years' "scientific
labors," the machinations of the "Simla Ring," and the excellence of
his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy watched him between half-shut eyes
and thought: "Evidently, this is the wrong tiger; but it is an original
animal." Mellish's hair was standing on end with excitement, and he