"Well, you were not renowned for punctuality at school, Tim!" "True for you, Philip, and many's the hearing I've had for that same. But this is a special occasion, and Jack should be punctual. Confound him." "Oh, he'll be here shortly," said Cassim, shrugging his shoulders. "We have plenty to talk about until he arrives. How are you, Tim? But I needn't ask, you look like the giant Goribuster." "Six foot five in my stockings," replied Tim, complacently; "and a good thing it is for me that same. Special corresponding isn't knocking about the world in a gentleman's yacht, sir." "Or collecting butterflies," added Philip, with a sly smile at Peter. "Are you at that rubbish still, Peter?" "Of course I am," answered Peter, in mild surprise; "in fact, since my father left me five hundred a year, I've devoted myself entirely to entomology." "And to eating!" said Tim, with a grin. "Why, Peter, you've a paunch like a priest." "Oh, really!" began Peter, scandalised; but his further protestations were drowned in the laughter of Philip, on hearing which Tim nodded approvingly. "Come now, my dear friend, that's better. You are more like a Christian than when I last saw you." "At Bedford?" inquired Philip, still smiling. "No! In London--no less. Didn't I see you at the theatre six months ago, looking for all the world as if you were attending your own funeral?" "Why didn't you speak to me?" "You looked so supercilious and stand-off-the-grass like that I couldn't bring myself to it at all." "You idiot!" said Philip, colouring with vexation. "You know I am always glad to see you." "Is that a Chinese invitation, Philip?" "No; I assure you, Tim. Don't think me such a prig. Why, I came all the way from the Guinea coast just to meet you." "It's a fine boy you are," said Tim, stretching out his huge hand; "it's only joking I am. If you didn't recognise an old friend, it's thrashing you I'd be, as once I did at school." "If I remember rightly, it was you who had the worst of that little encounter," retorted Philip, gripping Tim's hand strongly. "It was a draw," said Peter, suddenly; "I remember the fight quite well. But we can talk of these things again. I want to know what Tim is doing." "And this is fame," grunted Tim, nodding his head. "Haven't you seen my letters about the Soudan War to _The Morning Planet_, and my account of the Transvaal ructions? Am I not a special correspondent, you ignorant little person?" "Oh yes, yes; I know all that," replied Peter, impatiently; "but tell us about your life." "Isn't that my life, sir? When I left school, I went to Ireland and became a reporter. Then I was taken up by a paper in London, and went to the Soudan--afterwards to Burmah, where I was nearly drowned in the Irriwaddy. They know me in Algiers and Morocco. Now I've just returned from Burmah, where I parted with my dear friend, Pho Sa. He's in glory now--rest his soul! They hanged him for being a Dacoit, poor devil."