Rudyard Kipling 121 piano and opened it. Binkie, making himself as large as possible, spread out upon the sofa with the air of one who is not to be lightly disturbed. “Well,” said the Nilghai to the two pairs of shoulders, “have you never seen this place before?” A steam-tug on the river hooted as she towed her barges to wharf. Then the boom of the traffic came into the room. Torpenhow nudged Dick. “Good place to bank in — bad place to bunk in, Dickie, isn’t it?” Dick’s chin was in his hand as he answered, in the words of a general not without fame, still looking out on the darkness — “‘My God, what a city to loot!” Binkie found the night air tickling his whiskers and sneezed plaintively. “We shall give the Binkie-dog a cold,” said Torpenhow. “Come in,” and they withdrew their heads. “You ll be buried in Kensal Green, Dick, one of these days, if it isn’t closed by the time you want to go there — buried within two feet of some one else, his wife and his family.” “Allah forbid! I shall get away before that time comes. Give a man room to stretch his legs, Mr. Binkie.” Dick flung himself down on the sofa and tweaked Binkie’s velvet ears, yawning heavily the while. “You'll find that wardrobe-case very much out of tune,” Torpenhow said to the Nilghai. “It’s never touched except by you.” “A piece of gross extravagance,” Dick grunted. “The Nilghai only comes when I’m out.” “That’s because you're always out. Howl, Nilghai, and let him hear.” “The life of the Nilghai is fraud and slaughter, His writings are watered Dickens and water; But the voice of the Nilghai raised on high Makes even the Mahdieh glad to die!”