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about the time when Hector and his party were changing trains for the Northern frontier at Rawalpindi Junction, beset by a crowd of natives in every conceivable state of ruffianly raggedness and imploring in every known and some unknown dialects to be hired as porters, guides, dog boys, sweepers, grooms, butlers, cooks, and tailors, Sir James Rivet-Carnac sat facing Mr. Ezra W. Warburton and the latter's daughter in their suite at the Hotel Semiramis, busy with a small cup of coffee and a large glass of brandy, while the American was busy with a large cup of coffee and a small glass of brandy—thus both gentlemen somehow illustrating the divergent characteristics in matters bibulous of the two branches of the Anglo-Saxon race.

Sir James beamed. Sir James smiled. Sir James talked softly. Sir James waved pudgy, courteous hands.

For not only had the dinner been perfect, from turtle soup to an odorous Kashmere curry with fresh vegetable chutney, but, furthermore, he was a sensible man, who respected wealth, and knew that Mr. Warburton represented powerful Anglo-American financial interests.

“Of course, my dear sir,” he said. “There will be