CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH--Back to the Farm

One morning, about a month after the fight in the swamp, John was sitting at the table in his bungalow, a paper outspread before him, a pencil in his hand, and Said Mohammed standing at his elbow.

"We must have it all first-rate, you know," he said.

"Quite up to dick, sir; you may rely on me."

"Well now, hors d'oeuvres--I think we might do without that."

"With respect, sir, hors d'oeuvres is sine qua non--correct card, sir, foundation of the comme il faut."

"All right, then; stick down sardines: we've got a tin. Now potage--why the dickens don't you put it in English, khansaman?"

"The English tongue, sir, is great and glorious instrument, but too gross for refinements of culinary art. Soup!--listen to it--soup! disgusting monosyllable, sir, resembling hiccough. Contrast with the delicate vocables of French."

"Well, what shall the potage be?"

"Clear, sir, for the ladies, consommé à la Wanderobbo."

"What on earth is that?"

"I beg you, sir, not to insist on answer," said the Bengali gravely. "Thick, for masculine gender: Scotch broth, concession to prejudices of great nation."

"That's all right. What's next? Poissons! That looks fishy. Take care you don't drop an s. What fish can we do?"

"Coja hooked quantity of finny tribe which, with due sauce, may pass for trout."

"Now for entrées."

"The partridges you shot yesterday, sir, are in prime condition. I suggest perdrix à la Swahili. For relevé I propose----"

"I say, we'll drop that. Let's come to a good honest roast. Shoulder of lamb, say--but we can't manage mint sauce. There's no vinegar."

"With respect, sir, in intelligent anticipation I provide for that. I put quantity of Bill's honey in ferment, and made acidulous liquid passable imitation of vinegar; pious fraud."

"Plenty of vegetables, of course."

"Croquettes de pomme de terre, choux-fleurs à la Lulu, topinambours à la crême."

"Look here, I can't spell that crack-jaw. What, in plain English, are topinambours?"

"In vulgar tongue, sir, Jerusalem artichokes; but you will agree that final syllable of artichokes is ominous and forbidding, especially to ladies."

"Well, I've had enough of it. Finish the menu yourself. I've no doubt everything will be all right."

John went out and strolled round the farm. It presented a different appearance: four or five new wooden huts, neatly thatched, erected for the accommodation of the visitors expected, stood near the bungalow. John was at present the only white man on the farm, Mr. Halliday having returned to Nairobi with the rest of the rescue-party to make some purchases, and Ferrier to meet his sister and get attention to his wounded thigh. The evening before, a messenger had come in advance, to announce that the visitors would arrive next day: Mr. Halliday was returning with Mrs. Burtenshaw, her family, and the Ferriers. Said Mohammed was determined "to do credit to the establishment," as he put it; he would show the guests "that the resources of civilization were not dead letter in African wilds."

As the day drew on, John became restless. He had the floor of the bungalow scrubbed twice; set Lulu to scour the pans in the dairy for the third time; and got Coja to cut his hair. He was in some agitation of mind as to what he should wear. He looked out a white shirt, collar, and tie, and a suit of clothes he had not worn since he left England. His unaccustomed fingers struggled with his collar-stud until he was in despair, and when he had knotted his tie he found that he had no clips, and the wretched thing threatened to ride up to his chin.

He was standing at the door of the bungalow, thus arrayed, and feeling ridiculously got up, when he saw Ferrier galloping up on a pony.

"Hallo, old chap!" shouted his friend. "The others are about half-an-hour behind. Thought I would ride ahead and prepare you. What have you been doing to yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, don't mind what I say, but you look a bit of a guy, you know. Your coat's too tight, and your waistcoat too short: are they the things you wore at school? Your tie's wriggling round to your ear; and your trousers display a good deal of ankle--d'you know that you've got on odd socks?"

"Hang it all, Charley, what shall I do? I've got nothing else but khaki and drill, and I can't show up in those."

"Don't see why. The women won't expect to find Bond Street fashions here, and if you'll take my tip you'll tumble out of those things as soon as possible, and rig up in your usual toggery."

"You really think they won't mind?"

"Of course not. Hurry up; you'll just have time."

John dashed off with a feeling of unutterable relief. He pitched his tie and collar into a corner, crushed his suit into a drawer, regardless of creases, and in ten minutes reappeared in flannel shirt and clean white drill, feeling at ease.

In less than half-an-hour the party arrived, six in all, Mr. Gillespie having accompanied them. Their safari was still some miles in the rear.

"How d'you do, John?" said the elder lady, as he helped her to dismount. "I am Mrs. Burtenshaw--still!"

John felt himself blushing.

"I know you as Cousin Sylvia, ma'am," he said.

"We'll be great friends, I'm sure. You know Joe and Poll; this is Helen. Hilda, come and be introduced to my long-lost nephew. Regard me as your favourite aunt, my dear boy. Tell me," she whispered, "is that fat smiling gentleman in white your failed B.A.?"

"That's he: cook, khansaman, and major-domo. Said Mohammed, escort the ladies to their rooms."

The Bengali approached, bowing to each in turn.

"Esteemed madam and misses," he said, "deign to direct your footsteps to humble abode, or, as William Cowper beautifully says, your lodge in vast wilderness, with boundless contiguity of shade."

The ladies preserved an admirable composure, and retired to the huts assigned to them.

"Now, John," said Mrs. Burtenshaw, when they reappeared, "you must show us round this wonderful farm of yours. It looks very tidy, I must say. But where are your sheep? I thought you had hundreds, and there aren't fifty in that pen."

"They're out at grass, cousin; you'll see them come in by and by. There really isn't much to see, you know. Cabbages and artichokes--'m; topinambours is the name for ladies, says my cook--they're just the same, here and at home. If you'd come a few months later, now, I might have shown you some zebras. I'm going to try and tame some."

"Ah yes! I remember you threatened to meet your father on a striped charger, to match his striped trousers.... Who's that funny-looking little object?"

"That's Bill, scout and huntsman, and a millionaire, as things are reckoned here. Come and see his ivory."

"You're a very rash and headstrong boy. The idea of going miles and miles after a set of thieves! I wonder you're alive. A pretty settler, indeed!"

"Well, cousin, I dare say I shall settle down now, with father to keep me in order. You see, we couldn't have felt secure if----"

"Don't tell me! You're just a madcap; if you were my son I should be in constant terror lest you were brought home one day a mangled corpse."

"Look, mother," said Helen, "isn't it a pretty sight?"

The lambs were coming home, a great flock, covering the hollow between two gentle slopes. Their bleatings, heard faintly at first, became a deafening noise as they neared the farm. The observers noticed how they quickened their pace as they approached. Within the pen the ewes moved restlessly about, bleating calls to their young. When the lambs entered through the gate, they leapt forward frisking with delight, darted into the open pen, and sprang this way and that, each seeking its own dam.

"Charming!" said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "What a pity sheep are so silly! Now take us to your dairy."

Said Mohammed's cookery won general applause.

"I envy you, Halliday," said Mr. Gillespie. "He's worth his fifty rupees a month, isn't he?"

"You don't have a dinner like this every day, I'm sure, John--French menu and all," said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "I should like the recipe for that consommé à la Wanderobbo."

"What is à la Wanderobbo?" asked Helen.

"I don't know," replied John. "That little old man you saw just now is one of the Wanderobbo tribe."

"Good gracious! I hope he had nothing to do with the soup. He looked--well, not scrupulously clean."

"No, no," said John, laughing. "He had no more to do with the soup than Lulu had with the cauliflowers--unless she cut them. Talking of Bill, Mr. Gillespie, what are we to do about his ivory? It has been his dream for years to recover it, but when we got back he made me a present of it."

"Just like a man," said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "You'll struggle all your life and wear yourselves out for some ridiculous thing, and when you get it don't know what to do with it."

"It's what you do that counts, not what you get," remarked Mr. Halliday: "or as our failed B.A. said when we met him first, it is work that ennobles. But about the ivory?"

"Well," said Mr. Gillespie judicially, "I'm not sure but it belongs to the Government."

"I don't see that," said Joe Browne. "The Government did nothing for it. Didn't do anything for you, either. I'd stick to it if I were you, John. What will it fetch?"

"Five or six hundred pounds, I should think," said Mr. Gillespie.

"I wish it were mine," said Oliver. "Mother keeps me plaguey short."

"I'd thought of a scheme that would be pretty fair all round," said John. "Bill was the owner, and he gave it to me. He wants to stay on the farm. Well, I propose to build him a new hut and set him up with new weapons: that will make him comfortable for life. Then old Sobersides has been very decent. His men behaved like bricks, and we certainly couldn't have got it without their help. We might give them some bushels of beads and loads of wire and blankets and other things they value. They may seem trumpery to us, but they're untold wealth to the natives."

"And then?" said Mrs. Burtenshaw.

"Well, perhaps Charley and I might share the rest."

"Nonsense!" said Ferrier. "It's yours."

"And we'll share it. We shared everything else. Don't be selfish, Charley."

Everybody laughed, and it was ultimately settled that the ivory should be sent to Nairobi, where Mr. Gillespie promised to get the best possible price for it.

Here Said Mohammed came in with coffee. When he had handed round the cups he lingered.

"Don't wait, khansaman," said John. "We'll manage now. Every one was delighted with your dinner."

"I am repaid a thousandfold, sir. Not to intrude, sir, I have trifling communication to make."

"What is it?"

"Native chief, sir, did me honour to request I would convey thanks of self and co. for immense and colossal benefits conferred."

"Oh, that's all right. He thanked me himself, long ago."

"Festina lente, sir. Reflecting on said petition, I deemed the circs. worthy of more formal commemoration than perfunctory acknowledgement. Wherefore and accordingly I scorn delights and live laborious days in inditing few lines pat to the occasion, which with august permission I will now proceed to chuck off chest."

The two girls made suspicious use of their handkerchiefs; Joe Browne kicked Ferrier under the table; and Oliver, choking over his coffee, accused Mr. Halliday of smoking very strong cigars. John and the elder members of the party preserved their gravity, though it was in a curiously constrained tone that John asked the Bengali to favour the company. With a smile of gratification Said Mohammed unrolled a scroll of paper, and, looking round to make sure that every one was attending, began in his high-pitched voice--

Hear me tell a moving story, chronicled in lofty rhyme,

Redolent of stripling's glory, monument to end of time.

Idol of my veneration, you I celebrate in song;

Ornament of British nation, you I crack up, hot and strong.

To begin at the beginning: When one day, at usual pace,

Our oblate spheroid was spinning through an awful lot of space,

You, an up-to-date Orion, Enfield rifle in your hand,

Did for most obnoxious lion, holy terror in the land.

Next, predaceous gang, Swahilis--Juma, if you please, and Co.,--

Prowling, slippery as eel is, on the rampage to and fro,

Depredated native village, spreading woe and dire alarm,

Then for more important pillage fell like ton of bricks on farm.

Faithful servant, Said Mohammed, feeling anything but bold,

Like a bleating orphan lamb hid, sniffing wolves within the fold;

While despoilers collared rifles, ammunition, shell and shot;

Item, sundry piffling trifles which the poet has forgot.

Minions of a base levanter, villains of the deepest dye,--

You are after them instanter, lightning flashing from your eye;

Swoop upon them in their slumbers, catch them fairly on the hop,

Though inferior in numbers, smite them hip and thigh and crop.

Terrified by dire disaster, they make hurry-scurry flight.

Yoicks! our whipper-in goes faster, helter-skelter day and night,

Till dark citadel is sighted, wall-encircled, likewise moat.

Is prodigious effort blighted? Not at all: we simply gloat.

Roberts' grit and Cæsar's clear eye--honestly, you have them both.

'Fas est ab hoste doceri,' august Roman general quoth:

Taking leaf from book of Juma, you perpended ruse de guerre,

And with dodgy slimness you manoeuvred brigands from their lair.

Penned within restricted compass, you repel the fierce attack,

Calm amid most awful rumpus: things are looking very black.

Lo! in thickest of the slaughter, one sees chance of chipping in,

And with can of boiling water stems the tide and scores a win.

Threat of famine, grisly spectre, makes us look a little blue;

But our commonwealth's protector, launching forth in bark canoe,

Quits the precincts of the island, marches at a spanking pace,

Up-hill, down-hill, swamp and dry land, perfect Nimrod in the chase.

Hippopotamus stupendous to your prowess falls a prey.

Ministers of grace defend us! you are spirited away.

Lo! proverbially fickle, Fortune knocks you from your perch,

Leaves you in a pretty pickle, or, as you may say, the lurch.

Meditating in your prison, through the darkling stilly night,

Ere red Phoebus has arisen you have perpetrated flight:

Swift rejoin the little party by Swahili sore oppressed;

Juma then is in the cart, he gets a bullet in the chest.

Pardon slight inaccuracy, due to exigence of rhyme;

Frenzied poet, going pace, imagines only the sublime.

Be pedestrian and pedantic when you're patronizing prose,

Spur your Pegasus quite frantic when a poem you compose.

To return from this diversion, and to make long story short,

After enemy's dispersion you evacuated fort;

Made a bee-line for the village, situated on a hill,

Scooped the products of their tillage, bloodless coup, resistance nil.

Expediting preparations for strategic move in rear,

'Mid poor females' ululations, most distressing to the ear--

What makes all your pulses throb? oh! what sets all your nerves athrill?

'Tis shikari Wanderobbo, or, to use his alias, Bill.

Pale with rage and indignation (metaphorically pale),

Billy tells of spoliation, thieves his property assail.

Tartar like the bold Cambuscan (Chaucer left his tale half-told),

Juma digs up every tusk and Bill is absolutely sold.

Now behold you on your mettle; now momentous hour has struck,

You in most pugnacious fettle sally forth to try your luck;

Meet marauders by the river, fall on them like bolt from blue,

Crying 'Stand and eke deliver, or I'll run you through and through!'

(Note: that speech, correct in diction, is not quite correct in fact;

'Tis a literary fiction, managed with consummate tact.

So the other classic writers, Livy and Thucydides,

Decorate the lips of fighters with sublime apostrophes.)

Though the words were never uttered, pish! it matters not a jot;

Like March hares the scoundrels scuttered, dropping burdens on the spot;

After years of patient waiting, Bill regains his ownest own,

And with ecstasy gyrating, bellows till he's fairly blown.

You with prescient acumen see that all is not O.K.;

You alas! have very few men, Juma has a vast array;

Yet while danger round you thickens, lo! you neither quail nor quake;

Though you wonder how the dickens you are going to take the cake.

To omit progressive stages, which would take up too much time,

Occupy a dozen pages and exhaust a lot of rhyme--

After navigating torrent where the crocodiles disport,

You were spied by foe abhorrent, lurking watchful in the fort.

How you diddled them just proper, how you did the Johnnies brown,

And how many came a cropper as the rafts were floating down:

This perchance a future Milton, seeking an heroic theme,

May compose splendacious lilt on, in the groves of Academe.

And perchance some future Hallam, with display of prosy pomp,

Will relate in distant Balham scrumptious battle in the swamp;

And describe the villain Juma, in penultimate despair,

Meeting Bill upon the boom and getting his quietus there.

Now the hurly-burly's over, not a cloud bedims the sky;

You are jolly well in clover, and the bloom is on the rye;

'Tempus fugit': I must stow it---end my palpitating lay,

Ever faithful cook and poet, Said Mohammed, failed B.A.

There was a burst of applause as the Bengali concluded.

"Capital!" cried Mr. Halliday.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the girls together, clapping their hands.

"Absolutely unique, by Jove!" added Oliver.

"You're sure of immortality now, John," said Joe.

"I wouldn't wonder if it's good enough for Punch," said Mr. Gillespie.

"Such laudation warms the cockles of my heart, ladies and gentlemen," declared Said Mohammed, beaming. "But the poem is not destined to be squandered on profanum vulgus: it is strictly for private consumption."

"Have some copies printed, Mr. Mohammed," said Mrs. Burtenshaw. "I'll pay the bill."

"Your esteemed order, madam, shall be punctually attended to. And now, with excuses, I beg to be allowed to retire to my own place--to return to my muttons, as it were: or in other words, to wash the dishes."

And with profound salaams he withdrew.

By the last advices from Nairobi I learn that the Hallidays' farm in Kenya is exceedingly prosperous. Mr. Halliday received his lease, and was recently mentioned in a Government report as one of the most enterprising and successful settlers in British East Africa. Mrs. Burtenshaw regards this testimonial as unfair, since Mr. Halliday is only a figurehead, and John does the work; but, as Mr. Gillespie says, nobody cares a pin for what appears in a Government report.

There are two other farms adjoining Alloway, one owned by Charles Ferrier, the other by the two Brownes. It is rumoured that, as lions and other wild-fowl have now disappeared from the vicinity, two of the three farms will soon be graced by the presence of ladies; but there seems to be some speculation at tea-tables in Nairobi as to whether Hilda Ferrier will become Mrs. Joseph Browne or Mrs. David Halliday. Knowing John, I should say that there is no doubt about the matter. Mr. Gillespie advises Helen Browne to change her name to Ferrier at the same time: he is a firm believer in economy. Said Mohammed is anxiously awaiting definite information, for he says that he cannot set to work on his nuptial ode in honour of the occasion until he knows which is which; then he will show us all what's what. My own opinion is that he will be so busy in erecting a wedding-cake of suitable proportions as to have no leisure to build the lofty rhyme. Meanwhile he has learnt Spenser's "Epithalamium" by heart, and is convinced that, with due inspiration, he will knock it into a cocked hat.

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