Bones of the River - Edgar Wallace [21]
And he read. He read the Hundred Best Books and Egyptian History and John Stuart Mill, and books on Inductive and Deductive Logic, and Works of Travel and Sociology. If he did not actually read them, he bought them. Sometimes he read nearly through the first chapter, but generally he read the introduction and put the book away to be read some day “when I can give my mind to it.” That day never dawned. Possibly the introductions were sufficient to assure him that they were books he did not wish to know.
Bones was passing through a phase of intellectual development when the inequalities of life were all too apparent. He grieved for his fellowmen. He despised wealth and spoke glibly and contemptuously of capitalism. But for Florence, his life would have been intolerable. Florence was the property of Captain Hamilton. She was a hen, and she was of the Plymouth Rock variety. From her chickhood she had conceived a violent affection for Bones, and Bones, to whom all living things had a soul, had returned her love.
There was an embarrassing side to the friendship, for Florence followed him like a pet dog, and invariably inspected the guard behind him. And the Houssa has a very keen sense of humour.
Yet even Florence did not wholly compensate for the social conditions which were revealed to Bones from week to week in the pages of a fiery periodical which came to him. Bones grew careless in his attire, and addressed Abiboo, his sergeant, as “Comrade.” Which Sergeant Abiboo reported to Hamilton.
“It is clear that the young lord Tibbetti has fever,” he said, “for this morning he spoke to me as if he were a common man, and said that all men were equal. Even sergeants with privates. Also he said that the land did not belong to Government, but to me and to his lordship. This I report officially.”
Finding no traces of fever, Hamilton had given his subordinate three large pills, Bones protesting.
Summoned to the residency, he heard of his projected trip without enthusiasm. Ordinarily the prospect of assuming control of the Wiggle would have brought him to a high pitch of ecstasy.
“Thank you, sir an’ excellency,” he said gloomily. “I’ll go because it is my duty. I have a premonition that I may not come back. Instinct, my dear old Ham – I’ve always been like that. I’m physic.”
“‘Psychic’ is the word you want,” said Hamilton.
“We always call it ‘Physic’,” said Bones calmly, “and that’s the way it’s spelt, dear old comrade and OC Troops. If a johnny is physic, surely to good gracious heavens he knows how it’s spelt?”
“What have you a premonition of, Bones?” asked Sanders.
Bones made a grimace, lifted his angular shoulders and threw out his hands – gestures indicating his inability to give a plain answer to a plain question.
“Not wishing to cast a dark old shadow or be a jolly old killjoy, I’d rather not say,” he replied darkly, “but I’ve had this feeling, comrade–”
“A little less ‘comrade’ would be welcome,” said Hamilton.
“We’re all comrades, dear old officer,” said Bones gloomily. “We’ve got our jolly old social values mixed up. The condition of society with its naughty old artificial restrictions is positively ghastly. It is indeed, old Ham. Sweinmacher says–”
“What Sweinmacher or any other Dutch trader says is immaterial,” said Hamilton. “You go to the Isisi this afternoon. And if your premonition comes off I’ll write the nicest little