CHAPTER IV
In which it is proved that a thousand years of progressive civilization and of Christianity, meek or otherwise, have not yet succeeded in abolishing human sacrifice.
Outside, on the terrace, Mr. Preserved Higgins asked Tomps, the butler, the way to the nearest telegraph station; jumped into his roadster, hatless, coatless, and was off to the village where he flustered Miss Prudence Hutchison, the local post mistress, telegraph operator, and proprietress of a general merchandise store including everything needed from red flannels to sticky North country treacle, by sending a lengthy wire in a mad jumble of code words to an address in Upper Thames Street and, not content with having spent for it the exorbitant sum of seven and sixpence ha’penny, despatching a cablegram to a Mr. Ezra W. Warburton, 59b Pine Street, New York City, U. S. A., which read:
"Got you licked to a frazzle. What price Tamerlanistan now?
Inside, the Earl of Dealle faced his two sons. Gone was his slangy, nonchalant manner, his slangy, nonchalant diction.
“You are ruined, Hector,” he repeated, in a
