Lovingly he patted it and asked us if there ever was such a ham? or ever such a wonderful man as Mine Host? or ever such a fortunate woman as the missus?  Had any other woman such a ham or such a friend in need?  And bubbling over with affection for the whole world, he sent Jackeroo off for mistletoe, and presently the ham, all brave in Christmas finery, was hanging like a gay wedding-bell in the kitchen doorway.  Then the kitchen had to be decorated, also in mistletoe, to make a fitting setting for the ham, and after that the fiat went forth.  No one need expect either eggs or cream before “Clisymus”—­excepting, of course, the sick Mac—­he must be kept in condition to do justice to our “Clisymus” fare.

What a week it was—­all festivities, and meagre fare, and whirring egg-beaters, and thunderstorms, and downpours, and water-melon dividends, and daily visits to the vegetable patch; where Happy Dick was assured, during a flying visit, that we were sure of seven varieties of vegetables for “Clisymus.”

But alas for human certainty!  Even then swarms of grasshoppers were speeding towards us, and by sundown were with us.

In vain Cheon and the staff, the rejected, Bett-Bett every shadow and the missus, danced war-dances in the vegetable patch, and chivied and chased, and flew all ways at once; the grasshoppers had found green stuff exactly to their liking, and coming in clouds, settled, and feasted, and flew upwards, and settled back, and feasted, and swept on, leaving poor Cheon’s heart as barren of hope as the garden was of vegetables.  Nothing remained but pumpkins, sweet potatoes, and Cheon’s tardy watermelons, and the sight of the glaring blotches of pumpkins filled Cheon with fury.

“Pumpee-kin for Clisymus!” he raved, kicking furiously at the hideous wens.  Not if he knew it! and going to some stores left in our care by the Line Party, he openly stole several tins of preserved vegetables.  “Must have vegetable longa Clisymus,” he said, feeling his theft amply justified by circumstances, but salved his conscience by sending a gift of eggs to the Line Party as a donation towards its “Clisymus.”

Then finding every one sympathetic, he broached a delicate subject.  By some freak of chance, he said, the missus was the only person who had succeeded in growing good melons this year, and taking her to the melon beds, which the grasshoppers had also passed by, he looked longingly at three great fruits that lay like mossy green boulders among the rich foliage.  “Just chance,” he reiterated, and surely the missus would see that chance also favoured our “Clisymus.”  “A Clisymus without dessert would be no Clisymus at all,” he continued, pressing each fruit in turn between loving hands until it squeaked in response.  “Him close up ripe, missus.  Him sing out!” he said, translating the squeak.

But the missus appeared strangely inattentive, and in desperation Cheon humbled himself and apologised handsomely for former scoffings.  Not chance, he said, but genius!  Never was there white woman like the missus!  “Him savey all about,” he assured the Maluka.  “Him plenty savey gardin.”  Further, she was a woman in a thousand!  A woman all China would bow down to!  Worth ninety-one-hundred pounds in any Chinese matrimonial market.  “A valuable asset,” the Maluka murmured.