Fantasy fiction; Humorous stories; Jinn -- Fiction; Soldiers -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
"Master," answered the djinn, "for a week past it hath been prepared
for thine entry. Say but the word and I will transport thee thither."
"Right. Me an' Mr. Grant's quite ready now. On'y just get our kits an'
rifles off the side o' the line first."
"'Ome, John!" added Bill facetiously.
Eustace advanced upon them and they closed their eyes involuntarily.
As before, nothing seemed to happen to them; and yet, when they opened
their eyes again they were standing on the carriage sweep before the
front door of an imposing country-house built of gray stone, overgrown
for the most part with ivy and Virginia creeper. The building seemed
to them vast--immense. It was long and low, and covered a great deal
of space. They gazed about them hurriedly, and received an impression
of great trees and smooth-shaven lawns, ornamental waters and flagged
paths.
Alf gazed about him in awe.
"What do we do next?" he asked in a whisper.
"Ring the bell," answered Bill. "It's yours."
Alf advanced timidly up the steps, but recoiled in alarm as the door
opened unexpectedly. It disclosed an Eastern personage whose clothes
were stiff with gold and dazzling with gems; bowing low, he took
both Alf and Bill respectfully by the hand and led them through the
doorway. Here the personage with another deep obeisance stood aside and
motioned to them to precede him.
They crossed the vestibule towards the great hall which formed the
center of the building, realizing that the whole house was one
glittering mass of shifting barbaric color. In the hall itself stood
slaves in ordered ranks, black and white, male and female, each attired
with magnificence only one degree less than that of the personage
who had received them. The whole crowd stood waiting, silent and
motionless, for their new master to appear.
Bill came first. He sauntered easily into the hall with his hands in
his pockets--that is, as easily as is possible on mosaic pavement to
one wearing ammunition boots--and stood looking about him in a silence
in which a pin's fall would have caused a reverberating crash; then
Alf, who had been wrestling with a demon of shyness in the darkness of
the vestibule, clattered sheepishly across the threshold.
In that instant the silence was shattered into a million pieces. Seven
bands of weird and piercing oriental instruments came simultaneously
into action in seven different keys and, so far as could be discerned
above the frenzied beating of tambours, playing seven different tunes.
Such of the gathering as had no instruments contributed to the joyful
effect by shrieking and howling at the tops of their voices.
Alf--already awed by his surroundings--was quite overwhelmed by this
demonstration. For one moment he seemed to contemplate flight; then,
pulling himself together, he sought the side of his mate.
Bill turned towards him and shouted something, but it was utterly lost
in the hideous din.
"Can't 'ear!" bellowed Alf, and shook his head in confirmation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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