“The king was a kindly old chap, simple, yet shrewd, and with that slumbrous oriental way of accomplishing his ends, despite all obstacles.  Underneath this apparent simplicity I discovered a grim sardonic humor.  Trust the Oriental for always having that packed away under his bewildering diplomacy.  He was all alone in the world.  He was one of those rare eastern potentates who wasn’t hampered by parasitical relatives.  By George, the old boy could have given his kingdom, lock, stock and barrel, to the British government, and no one could say him nay.  There was a good deal of rumor the last time I was there that when he died England would step in actually.  The old boy gave me leave to come and go as I pleased, to hunt where and how I would.  I had a mighty fine collection.  There are tigers and leopards and bears and fat old pythons, forty feet long.  Of course, it isn’t the tiger country that Central India is, but the brutes you find are bigger.  I have about sixty beasts there now, and that’s mainly why I’m going back.  Want to clean it up and ship ’em to Hamburg, where I’ve a large standing order.  I’m going first to Ceylon, for some elephants.”

The colonel knocked the ash from his pipe.  “The old boy used to do some trapping himself, and whenever he’d catch a fine specimen he’d turn it over to me.  He had a hunting lodge not far from my quarters.  One day Ahmed came to me with a message saying that the king commanded my presence at the lodge, where his slaves had trapped a fine leopard.  Yes, my dears, slaves.  There is even a slave mart at the capital this day.  A barbaric fairy-land, with its good genii and its bad djinns.”

“The Arabian Nights,” murmured Winnie, snuggling close to Kathlyn.

“The Oriental loves pomp,” went on the colonel.  “He can’t give you a chupatty——­”

“What’s that?” asked Winnie.

“Something like hardtack.  Well, he can’t give you that without ceremonial.  When I arrived at the lodge with Ahmed the old boy—­he had the complexion of a prima donna—­the old boy sat on his portable throne, glittering with orders.  Standing beside him was a chap we called Umballa.  He had been a street rat.  A bit of impudence had caught the king’s fancy, and he brought up the boy, clothed, fed him, and sent him away down to Umballa to school.  When the boy returned he talked Umballa morning, noon and night, till the soldiers began to call him that, and from them it passed on to the natives, all of whom disliked the upstart.  Hanged if I can recall his real name.  He was ugly and handsome at the same time; suave, patient, courteous; yet somehow or other I sensed the real man below—­the Tartar blood.  I took a dislike to him, first off.  It’s the animal sense.  You’ve got it, Kit.  Behind the king sat the Council of Three—­three wise old ducks I wouldn’t trust with an old umbrella.”

Winnie laughed.