He does
not play with his emotions. I remember how, one night, in relating the
fall of Abdul Hamid, Harrington had worked himself up to an
extraordinary pitch of excitement. Never had that despot been painted in
such horrid colours; and after he had told how the palace guards rose
against the Constitution, and how the Young Turks marched upon
Constantinople, and how the craven tyrant, crying "Don't hurt me, don't
hurt me," was dragged from his bed by the good soldiers and clapped into
prison, Harrington turned, all aglow, to Bob, and waited for the boy to
echo his enthusiasm. But Bob waited till the cell-door clanged behind
the Unspeakable Turk, and said: "Now tell me about the giraffe that fell
into the water."
I spoke of the good Sultan. Of course there had to be one, and
Harrington found him in the same book with the bad Sultan. And when he
had studied the somewhat stolid features of Mohammed V for a little
while, it was inevitable that Bob should ask what a good Sultan did.
Harrington was in difficulties again. It was impossible to explain that
at bottom there really is no such thing as a good Sultan; that they are
as a rule cruel and immoral, and always expensive; and that at best they
are harmless, if somewhat stupid, survivals.
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