Rudyard Kipling 231 the check-book. Stop a minute. Four thousand pounds at four per cent — that’s safe interest — means a hundred and sixty pounds a year; one hundred and twenty pounds a hear — also safe — is two eighty, and two hundred and eighty pounds added to three hundred a year means gilded luxury for a single woman. Bess, we ll go to the bank.” Richer by two hundred and ten pounds stored in his money-belt, Dick caused Bessie, now thoroughly bewildered, to hurry from the bank to the P. and O. offices, where he explained things tersely. “Port Said, single first; cabin as close to the baggagehatch as possible. What ship’s going?” “The Colgong,” said the clerk. “She’s a wet little hooker. Is it Tilbury and a tender, or Galleons and the docks?” “Galleons. Twelve-forty, Thursday.” “Thanks. Change, please. I can’t see very well — will you count it into my hand?” “If they all took their passages like that instead of talking about their trunks, life would be worth something,” said the clerk to his neighbor, who was trying to explain to a harassed mother of many that condensed milk is just as good for babes at sea as daily dairy. Being nineteen and unmarried, he spoke with conviction. “We are now,” quoth Dick, as they returned to the studio, patting the place where his money-belt covered ticket and money, “beyond the reach of man, or devil, or woman — which is much more important. I’ve had three little affairs to carry through before Thursday, but I needn’t ask you to help, Bess. Come here on Thursday morning at nine. We'll breakfast, and you shall take me down to Galleons Station.” “What are you going to do?” “Going away, of course. What should I stay for?”