Rudyard Kipling 179 for other fools. Torpenhow flushed angrily. The constant strain of attendance on Dick had worn his nerves thin. “There remains a third fate,” said the Keneu, thoughtfully. “Consider this, and be not larger fools than necessary. Dick is — or rather was — an able-bodied man of moderate attractions and a certain amount of audacity.” “Oho!” said the Nilghai, who remembered an affair at Cairo. “I begin to see, — Torp, I’m sorry.” Torpenhow nodded forgiveness: “You were more sorry when he cut you out, though. — Go on, Keneu.” “T’ve often thought, when I’ve seen men die out in the desert, that if the news could be sent through the world, and the means of transport were quick enough, there would be one woman at least at each man’s bedside.” “There would be some mighty quaint revelations. Let us be grateful things are as they are,” said the Nilghai. “Let us rather reverently consider whether Torp’s three-cornered ministrations are exactly what Dick needs just now. — What do you think yourself, Torp?” “T know they aren’t. But what can I do?” “Lay the matter before the board. We are all Dick’s friends here. You’ve been most in his life.” “But I picked it up when he was off his head.” “The greater chance of its being true. I thought we should arrive. Who is she?” Then Torpenhow told a tale in plain words, as a special correspondent who knows how to make a verbal precis should tell it. The men listened without interruption. “Is it possible that a man can come back across the years to his calf-love?” said the Keneu. “Is it possible?” “I give the facts. He says nothing about it now, but he sits fumbling three letters from her when he thinks