"Man, you're a tenderfoot," said Mr. Gillespie, laughing. "You must have a cook. Your men would all mutiny if you didn't. I don't mean that he would cook for them; they'll have their own cooking-pots; but they wouldn't obey you for a day if they saw you cooking for yourself. The first maxim for a white man in this country is: 'Never do a black man's work.' Order your men about as much as you please, but _don't do anything_."
"But that's a doctrine of the dark ages. Confound it, man, that's the kind of thing we shook off centuries ago. I'm not a duke."
"That's just exactly what you are here. The natives will regard you as their lord and master, and if you don't act up to the part--why, man, I think the Governor will expel you as an undesirable alien. In short, you must have a cook."
Here Mr. Gillespie's native servant came in to say that an Indian gentleman desired to see him.
"Send him in," said Mr. Gillespie, and there entered, suave and smiling, Said Mohammed, failed B.A. He bowed respectfully--a little too respectfully, thought John--to his acquaintances of the day before; then, addressing himself to Mr. Gillespie, he said--
"Having learnt in the bazaar, sir, that the esteemed gentleman in whose company I had the honour to travel yesterday is engaging a safari, I embrace the opportunity of submitting tender of my services in unremitting attention to the interior economy--soups, joints, sweets, et cetera, or, as one might say, _hoc genus omne_, as it were."
John opened his eyes. Apparently the failed B.A. was offering himself as cook; but John thought he must be mistaken. Mr. Gillespie, however, after a stare at his visitor, said in a severely practical tone--
"Yes, sir, I am _experientia docet_ with several years' standing, and testimonials galore. Videlicet, the Central Restaurant, sir, in London, continuously chock-a-block on curry day when my dishes, prepared Indian fashion, were the delight of city gents and ladies of prepossessing appearance who feed there regular as clock-work. In soup, joint, entrée I am a don; in sauce I am a wily adept."
"Come up to my bungalow and cook my dinner to-night," said Mr. Gillespie.
"Verree good, sir. The proof of the pudding is in the mastication thereof. Good-morning, sir, and assuring you of my best services at all times."