The only
thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I've tried shooting big
game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many yards;
and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I enjoy it
about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a sum in
long division on the blackboard."
"I know--I know," said Forster.
"There might be something in aeroplanes," went on Ives, reflectively.
"I've tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried affair
of wind and ballast."
"Women," suggested Forster, with a smile.
"Three months ago," said Ives. "I was pottering around in one of the
bazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but with
a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some amber and
pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an attendant--a big
Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant drew nearer to me
by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand. I looked at it
when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in pencil: 'The arched
gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.' Does that appear to
you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?"
"I made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the
property of an old Turk--a grand vizier, or something of the sort.
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