"You don’t look very happy," said Lawrence. "What’s the matter?" "It is a complicated case, sir," said the Babu mournfully. "Diagnosis easy, but as for remedies that touch the spot, alas! _non est_, or more correctly, _non sunt_." "What’s wrong? Out with it, man," said Bob. "Imprimis and in first place, sir, I droop in shade of impending calamity--regular sword of Damocles. I learn from esteemed avuncular relative, whose return to wonted haunts fills bitter cup of rejoicing to overflowing and slops, that he abandons commercial avocation, rests on his oars and laurels, and subsides into lassitude of adipose retirement. Every man to his gout, sir; but what is one man’s alimentary nourishment is another man’s happy dispatch. In short, young sirs, where do I come in?" "Well, I’ll tell you a secret," said Bob. "In recognition of your valuable services, and your willingness to help in all sorts of ways out of your own line, my uncle is going to make you a present of £50 when you leave his employment." "Jolly good tip, sir," said the Babu, brightening. "To use vulgar tongue, Burra Sahib is ripping old josser, and no mistakes. But for one harrowing reflection, carking care, sir, and fly in ointment, I should be restored to normal hilarity and cock-a-hoopness." "Well?" "You observe, sir, that while honourable superior persons are engaged in temperate carousal and fumigation, there is absence of mafficking and horseplays among small fry; no beer and skittles, sir. That lies like leaden hundred-weight upon my bounding bosom. I attribute it to vacuous cavity in my brain-pan, or possibly erratic convulsions of grey matter. I spoke of organising tamasha, you remember--regular orgy of intellectual fireworks and monkey tricks, the set piece and tour de force of which was to be ode, elegy, or comic song penned by humble and obsequious servant. Would you believe it! Though I have scorned delights and lived laborious days, crowned my noble brow with sopped tea-cloth, imbibed oceans of coffee, black as your hat, and performed other rites enjoined by custom and recollections of stewing for exams--in spite of stupendous and praiseworthy efforts, that monument of literary agility is yet only shapeless block, sir: in short, I haven’t done it." "That’s a pity," said Lawrence, repressing a smile. "Inspiration ran short, eh?" "No, sir, inspiration flows unchecked, a mild pellucid stream. Failure is due to intractable and churlish disposition of English lingo. I write a magnificent and lovely line, to wit-- "The solar luminary winked his bloodshot orb-- and then beat coverts for a rhyme: cui bono and what’s the use? How true it is that fine words butter no parsnips! My note-book is chock full of similar felicitous lines, left in single blessedness and mere oblivion for want of an accommodating partner, or, as I may say, eligible parti." "Why not try blank verse, then?" said Bob.