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Words: 113707 in 89 pages
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"Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling!" was sung in a good, clear, boyish tenor, and then the singer stopped, to say impatiently,--
"What nonsense it is! My head seems stuffed full of Scotch songs,--'Wee bit sangs,' as the doctor calls them. Seems funny that so many Scotch people should come out here to the East. I suppose it's because the Irish all go to the West, that they may get as far apart as they can, so that there may not be a fight. I say, though, I want my breakfast."
The speaker, to wit Harry Kenyon, sauntered up to the verandah of the bungalow and looked in at the window of the cool, shaded room, where a man-servant in white drill jacket and trousers was giving the finishing touches to the table.
"Breakfast ready, Mike?"
"Yes, sir; coffee's boiled, curry's made."
"Curry again?"
"Yes, Master Harry; curry again. That heathen of a cook don't believe a meal's complete without curry and rice."
"But I thought we were going to have fried fish this morning."
"So did I, sir. I told him plainly enough; but he won't understand, and he's curried the lot."
"How tiresome!"
"I should like to curry his hide, Master Harry, but it's leather-coloured already. Never mind; there's some fresh potted meat."
"Bother potted meat! I'm sick of potted meat. Look here, next time I bring home any fresh fish you go into the kitchen and cook them yourself."
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