This lying abed is the mother of seventy devils ... my son ! my son ! ' She trotted forth to raise a typhoon off the cook-house , and almost on her shadow rolled in the Babu , robed as to the shoulders like a Roman emperor , jowled like Titus , bare-headed , with new patent-leather shoes , in highest condition of fat , exuding joy and salutations . ` By Jove , Mister O'Hara , but I are jolly-glad to see you . I will kindly shut the door . It is a pity you are sick . Are you very sick ? ' ` The papers -- the papers from the kilta . The maps and the murasla ! ' He held out the key impatiently ; for the present need on his soul was to get rid of the loot . ` You are quite right . That is correct Departmental view to take . You have got everything ? ' ` All that was handwritten in the kilta I took . The rest I threw down the hill . ' He could hear the key 's grate in the lock , the sticky pull of the slow-rending oilskin , and a quick shuffling of papers . He had been annoyed out of all reason by the knowledge that they lay below him through the sick idle days -- a burden incommunicable . For that reason the blood tingled through his body , when Hurree , skipping elephantinely , shook hands again . ` This is fine ! This is finest !
Mister XXXXX !
Babu Jove O'Hara Roman days kilta murasla oilskin right salutations