And, all
the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on
the Continent, and Empires are saying, "You're another," and Mister Gladstone
is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the little black
copyboys are whining, "kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh" ("Copy wanted"), like tired bees,
and most of the paper is as blank as Modred's shield.
But that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months when none
ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the
glass, and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, and the press-
machines are red-hot to touch, and nobody writes anything but accounts of
amusements in the Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone
becomes a tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men
and women that you knew intimately, and the prickly heat covers you with a
garment, and you sit down and write: "A slight increase of sickness is
reported from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic
in its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District
authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, however, with deep regret we
record the death," etc.
Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and reporting the
better for the peace of the subscribers.
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