CHAPTER VIII.
And these two, as I have told you, Were the friends of Hiawatha, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind.
-- Hiawatha.
TORPENHOW was paging the last sheets of some manuscript, while the Nilghai, who had come for chess and remained to talk tactics, was reading through the first part, commenting scornfully the while.
'It's picturesque enough and it's sketchy,' said he; 'but as a serious consideration of affairs in Eastern Europe, it's not worth much.' 'It's off my hands at any rate....

Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine slips altogether, aren't there?
That should make between eleven and twelve pages of valuable misinformation.

Heigho!' Torpenhow shuffled the writing together and hummed-- Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell, If I'd as much money as I could tell, I never would cry, Young lambs to sell! Dick entered, self-conscious and a little defiant, but in the best of tempers with all the world.
'Back at last ?' said Torpenhow.
'More or less.

What have you been doing ?' 'Work.

Dickie, you behave as though the Bank of England were behind you.
Here's Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday gone and you haven't done a line.
It's scandalous.' 'The notions come and go, my children--they come and go like our 'baccy,' he answered, filling his pipe.