The Thibetan Prince will only be here two weeks longer." "Then old Fraser will take me to his heart again." Alaric Hobbs reflected on his vain attempt to try the Tunguse, Chinook, Zuni, Apache, Sioux, and Esquimaux dialects on the handsome Prince Djiddin, whose Oriental magnificence was even now the despairing admiration of the two pretty housemaids.
"My august master cannot speak to any one but the great scholar whom he came here to see.

He soon returns to his retirement in his palace in the Karakorum Mountains.

And he never will emerge thence!" solemnly said the Moonshee, adding in a whisper: "He may, by the grace of Buddha, be re-incarnated as the Dalai-Lama.

He springs from the loins of kings.

I dare not break in upon his awful silence." The Moonshee's significant gesture of drawing a hand across his own brown throat had silenced the pushing American professor.
"By hokey!" he groaned, "it is hard to have to play second fiddle to this purblind old Scotchman." Alaric Hobbs had been a reporter upon that dainty sheet, The New York Whorl, in one of his "emergent" periods, and so he writhed in agony at being left at the post.