"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers," said
the old man. "What was that you started telling me the other day about a
monkey's paw or something, Morris?"
"Nothing," said the soldier, hastily. "Leastways nothing worth hearing."
"Monkey's paw?" said Mrs. White, curiously.
"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps," said the
sergeant-major, offhandedly.
His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly
put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host
filled it for him.
"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, "it's just
an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy."
He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew
back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.
"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. White as he took it
from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.
"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant-major,
"a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and
that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell
on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it."
His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their
light laughter jarred somewhat.
"Well, why don't you have three, sir?" said Herbert White, cleverly.
The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard
presumptuous youth.
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