The Greatest Works of Fergus Hume - 22 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Fergus Hume

he said, wiping his heated brow, “it’s hot. I am, anyhow.”

      “That’s scarcely to be wondered at,” returned Cassim dryly, “considering the enthusiasm of your greeting.”

      “And why not?” retorted Tim, with the broadest of brogues; “am I not glad to see you both?”

      “Of course; and we are glad to see you,” said Peter, examining his crushed hand; “but you needn’t maim us for life.”

      Tim roared with laughter in the most unfeeling manner, and Cassim, with a smile, placed his hand on the giant’s shoulder.

      “The same noisy Tim as of old,” he said kindly; “you were a large boy, Tim, and now you are a large man. I wouldn’t have recognised you, though, save for the brogue. It’s as strong as ever.”

      “That’s true, anyhow,” acknowledged Fletcher placing his huge paw on Philip’s slender hand as it rested on his shoulder. “Wasn’t I but one term at the school, and that didn’t turn it into cockney speaking. Besides, I’ve been to Cork since.”

      “To freshen up the accent, I suppose,” said Grench, with the air of a man who has made a cutting remark; “but a special correspondent should know more than one language.”

      “Especially if the language is Irish,” finished Cassim, mischievously.

      “Get along with you,” replied Tim, with a twinkle in his eye; “why, it’s a polyglot I am, French, Italian, Spanish, and a touch of Arabic. I can tell lies in any one of them. So here you are, lads. Where’s Jack?”

      “Lord knows!”

      “He was in South America when I heard last; but I’ll go bail he’ll turn up soon. What is the time?”

      “Half-past seven,” rejoined Peter, consulting an eminently respectable watch of the family physician species.

      Tim took out his piece of paper from a pocket-book commensurate to his size, and smoothed it carefully with his huge hand.

      “Seven’s the hour, and Jack’s late. I never knew him early yet.”

      “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.”

      “You seem to have been all over the world, Tim,” said Philip, when the Irishman stopped for breath, “it’s queer I never knocked up against you.”

      “Why, you never stayed one day in one place. That boat of yours is a kind of Flying Dutchman.”

      “Not a bit of it; she has doubled the Cape lots of times. I was just trying to persuade Peter to take a cruise with me.”

      “I am seriously thinking of the advisability of doing so,” observed Peter, judiciously selecting his words.

      “Are you, indeed, Mr. Lindley Murray. Well, if Philip asks me, I’ll come too.”

      “Will you really, Tim?” asked Philip, eagerly.

      “Of course I will. There’s no war on at present, and I’m not busy. If those squabbling South American Republics don’t come to blows again, I’ll be free for six months, more or less.”

      “Then come with me, by all means.”

      “I tell you what,” observed Peter, who had been thinking; “Jack, if he turns up at all, will have travelled home from South America. Let us take him back in Philip’s yacht.”

      “That’s not a bad idea anyhow,” from Tim, patting Peter’s head, a familiarity much resented by the family physician. “You’ve got brains under this bald spot.”

      “I am quite agreeable, provided Jack turns up,” said Sir Philip, yawning; “but it is now eight o’clock, and I’m hungry. It’s no use waiting any longer for Jack, so I vote we have dinner.”

      “He’ll arrive in the middle of it,” said Grench, as Cassim touched the bell. “Jack was never in time, or Tim either.”

      “Don’t be taking away my character, you mosquito,” cried Tim, playfully, “or I’ll put you on the top of the bookcase there. It’s a mighty little chap you are, Peter!”

      “Well, we can’t all be giants!” retorted Peter, resentfully. “I’m tall enough for what I want to do.”

      “Collecting butterflies! You don’t know the value of time, sir. Come along with me to the dining-room.” And, in spite of Peter’s struggles,