The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what he
remembered of the terminology of the Creed. He wrote: 'I also, in the
days of what you held to be my backsliding, have obtained Enlightenment,
and with Enlightenment has come Power.' Then he grew so deeply
mysterious that the recipient of the letter could make neither head
nor tail of it, and was proportionately impressed; for he fancied that
his friend had become a 'fifth-rounder.' When a man is a 'fifth-rounder'
he can do more than Slade and Houdin combined.
Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and was beginning
a sixth interpretation when his bearer dashed in with the news that
there was a cat on the bed. Now if there was one thing that Lone Sahib
hated more than another, it was a cat. He scolded the bearer for not
turning it out of the house. The bearer said that he was afraid. All
the doors of the bedroom had been shut throughout the morning, and no
_real_ cat could possibly have entered the room. He would prefer not
to meddle with the creature.
Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow of his
bed, sprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten; not a jumpsome, frisky
little beast, but a slug-like crawler with its eyes barely opened and
its paws lacking strength or direction--a kitten that ought to have
been in a basket with its mamma.
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