Two months later a coolie bricklayer was killed in a scuffle that took place opposite Naboth’s Vineyard.  The Inspector of Police said it was a serious case; went into my servants’ quarters; insulted my butler’s wife, and wanted to arrest my butler.  The curious thing about the murder was that most of the coolies were drunk at the time.  Naboth pointed out that my name was a strong shield between him and his enemies, and he expected that another baby would be born to him shortly.

Four months later the hut was all mud walls, very solidly built, and Naboth had used most of my shrubbery for his five goats.  A silver watch and an aluminium chain shone upon his very round stomach.  My servants were alarmingly drunk several times, and used to waste the day with Naboth when they got the chance.  I spoke to Naboth.  He said, by my favour and the glory of my countenance, he would make all his women-folk ladies, and that if any one hinted that he was running an illicit still under the shadow of the tamarisks, why, I, his Suzerain, was to prosecute.

A week later he hired a man to make several dozen square yards of trellis-work to put around the back of his hut, that his women-folk might be screened from the public gaze.  The man went away in the evening, and left his day’s work to pave the short cut from the public road to my house.  I was driving home in the dusk, and turned the corner by Naboth’s Vineyard quickly.  The next thing I knew was that the horses of the phaeton were stamping and plunging in the strongest sort of bamboo net-work.  Both beasts came down.  One rose with nothing more than chipped knees.  The other was so badly kicked that I was forced to shoot him.

Naboth is gone now, and his hut is ploughed into its native mud with sweetmeats instead of salt for a sign that the place is accursed.  I have built a summer-house to overlook the end of the garden, and it is as a fort on my frontier whence I guard my Empire.

I know exactly how Ahab felt.  He has been shamefully misrepresented in the Scriptures.

THE DREAM OF DUNCAN PARRENNESS [Footnote:  Copyright, 1891, by MACMILLAN & Co.]

Like Mr. Bunyan of old, I, Duncan Parrenness, Writer to the Most Honourable the East India Company, in this God-forgotten city of Calcutta, have dreamed a dream, and never since that Kitty my mare fell lame have I been so troubled.  Therefore, lest I should forget my dream, I have made shift to set it down here.  Though Heaven knows how unhandy the pen is to me who was always readier with sword than ink-horn when I left London two long years since.