BOOK II.
THE TRANSMIGRATION OF A SOUL
CHAPTER IX.
THREE TRAVELERS IN THIBET.
“Shut the door!”
No wonder the Doctor said it.
The man who can leave the door open when the thermometer stands at 10 degrees Fah. below zero, is lacking in consideration for his fellow man, to say the least.
“Shut the door!” roared the Doctor, a second time. “Shut the door!”
“Maurice! Maurice! Rouse yourself old man!” I called, adding my voice to that of the Rev. Miles Philpot, which needed no addition, being a host in itself.
Maurice De Veber gave a start; turning, he stared at me for a second in a dazed fashion which had become common with him of late, and then, with a sudden movement forward, the very energy of which showed that he had at last reached a realization of the fact that the Doctor and I were rapidly freezing, slammed the door of the inn at Zhaduan.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, turning toward the k’ang, upon which the Rev. Miles Philpot lay sprawled out in the most undignified fashion, when you come to consider his cloth. I sat beside him with my legs doubled under me like a Turk or a tailor, trying to keep from freezing above while being slowly toasted below.
“It’s all very well to beg a fellow’s pardon after you’ve let in several hundred thousand litres of cold air, French measure,” grumbled the Doctor; “what I would like to know is why you opened the door at all?”
Maurice laughed; then out came the inevitable pipe—that
