The Adventures of Kathlyn | Page 4

genii and its bad

djinns."
"The Arabian Nights," murmured Winnie, snuggling close to Kathlyn.
"The Oriental loves pomp," went on the colonel. "He can't give you a
chupatty----"
"What's that?" asked Winnie.
"Something like hardtack. Well, he can't give you that without
ceremonial. When I arrived at the lodge with Ahmed the old boy--he
had the complexion of a prima donna--the old boy sat on his portable
throne, glittering with orders. Standing beside him was a chap we
called Umballa. He had been a street rat. A bit of impudence had
caught the king's fancy, and he brought up the boy, clothed, fed him,
and sent him away down to Umballa to school. When the boy returned
he talked Umballa morning, noon and night, till the soldiers began to
call him that, and from them it passed on to the natives, all of whom
disliked the upstart. Hanged if I can recall his real name. He was ugly
and handsome at the same time; suave, patient, courteous; yet somehow
or other I sensed the real man below--the Tartar blood. I took a dislike
to him, first off. It's the animal sense. You've got it, Kit. Behind the
king sat the Council of Three--three wise old ducks I wouldn't trust
with an old umbrella."
Winnie laughed.
"While we were salaaming and genuflecting and using grandiloquent
phrases the bally leopard got loose, somehow. Maybe some one let him
loose; I don't know. Anyhow, he made for the king, who was too
thunderstruck to dodge. The rest of 'em took to their heels, you may lay
odds on that. Now, I had an honest liking for the king. Seeing the brute
make for him, I dashed forward. You see, at ceremonials you're not
permitted to carry arms. It had to be with my hands. The leopard
knocked the old boy flat and began to maul him. I kicked the brute in
the face, swept the king's turban off his head and flung it about the head
of the leopard. Somehow or other I got him down. Some of the
frightened natives came up, and with the help of Ahmed we got the

brute tied up securely. When the king came around he silently shook
hands with me and smiled peculiarly at Umballa, who now came
running up."
"And that's how you got those poor hands!" exclaimed Kathlyn, kissing
the scars which stood out white against the tan.
"That's how," raising the hands and putting them on Kathlyn's head in a
kind of benediction.
"Is that all?" asked Winnie breathlessly.
"Isn't that enough?" he retorted. "Well, what is it, Martha? Dinner?
Well, if I haven't cheated you girls out of your tea!"
"Tea!" sniffed Winnie disdainfully. "Do you know, dad, you're awfully
mean to Kit and me. If you'd take the trouble you could be more
interesting than any book I ever read."
"He doesn't believe his stories would interest vain young ladies," said
Kathlyn gravely.
Her father eyed her sharply. Of what was she thinking? In those calm
unwavering eyes of hers he saw a question, and he feared in his soul
she might voice it. He could evade the questions of the volatile Winnie,
but there was no getting by Kathlyn with evasions. Frowning, he
replaced the order in the box, which he put away in a drawer. It was all
arrant nonsense, anyhow; nothing could possibly happen; if there did,
he would feel certain that he no longer dwelt in a real workaday world.
The idle whim of a sardonic old man; nothing more than that.
"Father, is the king dead?"
"Dead! What makes you ask that, Kit?"
"The past tense; you said he was, not is."
"Yes, he's dead, and the news came this morning. Hence, the yarn."

"Will there be any danger in returning?"
"My girl, whenever I pack my luggage there is danger. A cartridge may
stick; a man may stumble; a man you rely on may fail you. As for that,
there's always danger. It's the penalty of being alive."
On the way to the dining-room Kathlyn thought deeply. Why had her
father asked them if they loved him? Why did he speak of the Big Trek?
There was something more than this glittering medal, something more
than this simple tale of bravery. What? Well, if he declined to take her
into his confidence he must have good reason.
After dinner that night the colonel went the rounds, as was his habit
nightly. By and by he returned to the bungalow, but did not enter. He
filled his cutty and walked to and fro in the moonlight, with his head
bent and his hands clasped behind his back. There was a restlessness in
his stride not unlike that of the captive beasts in the cages near by.
Occasionally he paused