"What makes him think that?" demanded the consul, with some
shortness. Young Mr. Stedman looked nervously at the consul
and at Albert, and said that he guessed someone must have told
him.

The consul's office was divided into four rooms with an open
court in the middle, filled with palms, and watered somewhat
unnecessarily by a fountain.

"I made that," said Stedman, in a modest, offhand way. "I
made it out of hollow bamboo reeds connected with a spring.
And now I'm making one for the King. He saw this and had a
lot of bamboo sticks put up all over the town, without any
underground connections, and couldn't make out why the water
wouldn't spurt out of them. And because mine spurts, he
thinks I'm a magician."

"I suppose," grumbled the consul, "someone told him that too."

"I suppose so," said Mr. Stedman, uneasily.

There was a veranda around the consul's office, and inside the
walls were hung with skins, and pictures from illustrated
papers, and there was a good deal of bamboo furniture, and
four broad, cool-looking beds. The place was as clean as a
kitchen. "I made the furniture," said Stedman, "and the
Bradleys keep the place in order."

"Who are the Bradleys?" asked Albert.