It was after his first call at the
Queeringtons', when the Doctor had advised him to choose a congenial
theme and let his fancy have full rein. A word of encouragement was
all he needed to begin a series of tales that had burned for utterance
ever since he left India. They were the adventures related to him by
his Mohammedan bearer, Khalil Samad, who had sat on his heels many a
night before the young sahib's fire, and spun yarns of marvelous
variety. Donald had only to close his eyes to see the keen, subtle
face surmounted by its huge white turban, and to hear the torrent of
picturesque broken English that poured from the lips of one of the few
Mohammedans in India who could curse the various natives in their own
vernacular from the Khyber Pass to Trichinopoli.
But the story of Khalil's adventures having been launched into unknown
waters, had not yet been heard from, and Donald patiently returned to
his feature articles, holding himself down to the actual and being
bored as only a person with a creative imagination can be bored by the
naked, unadorned truth.
His one consolation these days was in the fact that Miss Lady would
not have to give up Thornwood.
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