[Illustration: _Friend_ (_to animal painter_). "I SAY, OLD CHAP, YOU
LOOK A BIT OFF COLOUR TO-DAY."

_Artist_. "YES, I AM. I CAN'T DO A STROKE OF WORK."

_Friend_. "ONE OF YOUR MEATLESS DAYS, IN FACT."]

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

IN the long long-ago, Frobisher and I, assisted by a handful of native
troopers, kept the flag flying at M'Vini.


We hoisted it to the top of a tree at sun-up, where it remained,
languidly flapping its tatters over leagues of Central African bush
till sun-set, when we hauled it down again--an arduous life. After
we had been at M'Vini about six months, had shot everything worth
shooting, and knew one another's funny stories off by heart, Frobisher
and I grew bored with each other, hated in fact the sight, sound and
mere propinquity of each other, and, shutting ourselves up in our
separate huts, communicated only on occasions of the direct necessity,
and then by the curtest of official notes. Thus a further three months
dragged on.

Then one red-hot afternoon came Frobisher's boy to my wattle-and-dab,
bearing a note.

"Visitor approaching from S.W. got up like a May-Queen; think it