Rudyard Kipling 183 Our creditors will weep and they will wail, Our absence much regretting when they find that they've been getting Out of England by next Tuesday’s Indian mail.” Following the trampling of feet, slamming of Torpenhow’s door, and the sound of voices in strenuous debate, some one squeaked, “And see, you good fellows, I have found a new water-bottle — firs’-class patent — eh, how you say? Open himself inside out.” Dick sprang to his feet. He knew the voice well. “That’s Cassavetti, come back from the Continent. Now | know why Torp went away. There’s a row somewhere, and — I’m out of it!” The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. “That’s for my sake,” Dick said bitterly. “The birds are getting ready to fly, and they wouldn’t tell me. I can hear Morten-Sutherland and Mackaye. Half the War Correspondents in London are there; — and I’m out of it.” He stumbled across the landing and plunged into Torpenhow’s room. He could feel that it was full of men. “Where’s the trouble?” said he. “In the Balkans at last? Why didn’t some one tell me?” “We thought you wouldn’t be interested,” said the Nilghai, shamefacedly. “It’s in the Sudan, as usual.” “You lucky dogs! Let me sit here while you talk. I shan’t be a skeleton at the feast. — Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as bad as ever.” Dick was led into a chair. He heard the rustle of the maps, and the talk swept forward, carrying him with it. Everybody spoke at once, discussing press censorships, railway-routes, transport, water-supply, the capacities of generals, — these in language that would have horrified a trusting public, — rangint, asserting, denouncing, and laughing at the top of their voices. There was the glorious certainty of war in the Sudan at any moment. The Nilghai said so, and it was well to