Rudyard Kipling I13 the dinner. “Never mind. We had both been working very hard, and it was your unearned increment we spent, and as you're only a loafer it didn’t matter.” “That’s pleasant — from the man who is bursting with my meat, too. I’ll get that dinner back one of these days. Suppose we go to a theater now.” “Put our boots on, — and dress, — and wash?” The Nilghai spoke very lazily. “I withdraw the motion.” “Suppose, just for a change — as a startling variety, you know — we, that is to say we, get our charcoal and our canvas and go on with our work.” Torpenhow spoke pointedly, but Dick only wriggled his toes inside the soft leather moccasins. “What a one-ideaed clucker that is! If I had any unfinished figures on hand, I haven’t any model; if I had my model, I haven’t any spray, and I never leave charcoal unfixed overnight; and if I had my spray and twenty photographs of backgrounds, I couldn’t do anything tonight. I don’t feel that way.” “Binkie-dog, he’s a lazy hog, isn’t he?” said the Nilghai. “Very good, I will do some work,” said Dick, rising swiftly. “PIl fetch the Nungapunga Book, and we'll add another picture to the Nilghai Saga.” “Aren’t you worrying him a little too much?” asked the Nilghai, when Dick had left the room. “Perhaps, but I know what he can turn out if he likes. It makes me savage to hear him praised for past work when I know what he ought to do. You and I are arranged for —” “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 Dick’s may be when he gives himself to his work. That’s what makes me so keen