Tales of the Malayan Coast Part 17

"I came out to India from Boston as a young man," he continued, "either in '66 or '68, I forget which."

"Try '67," I suggested.

"It was not '67," he exclaimed angrily, "it was either '66 or '68."

"Or some other date. However, that's but a detail. Proceed."

"Sir, you can make sport of me, but what I am telling you is G.o.d's truth. May I be struck dead if one lie pa.s.ses my lips. I came out to plant coffee; I thought, like many others, that I had only to cut down the jungle and put in coffee plants, and make my everlasting fortune."

"And didn't you?" I asked, glancing at his dilapidated old helmet that hung over the corner of the sideboard.

"Look at me!" he burst forth, springing upon his feet, his breast heaving under his blue pajamas.

"Pardon the question," I answered. "Go on, you are doing bravely."

He sank back into his chair with a commendable air of dignity.

"I had a little money of my own," he continued, "and opened up an estate. It promised well, but I soon came to the end of my small capital. I thought I could go to Calcutta and Bombay and Simla, and cultivate my mind by travel and society, while the bushes were growing. Well it ended in the same old way. I got into the chitties'

hands--they are worse than Jews--at two per cent a month on a mortgage on my estate. Then I went back to it with a determination to pay up my debt, make my estate a success, and after that to see the world.

I worked, sir, like a n.i.g.g.e.r, and for a time was able to meet my naked creditor, from month to month, hoping all the time against hope for a b.u.mper crop."

"I understand," I said. "Your b.u.mper crop did not come, and your chitty did. Where does she come in?" I nodded in the direction of the little sleeper.

He glanced uneasily in the same direction, and a tear gathered in his eye.

"I married on credit, sir, the daughter of an English army officer. It was infernal. But, sir, you would have done likewise. Live under the burning sun of India for four years, struggle against impossibilities and hope against hope, and then have a pair of great hazel eyes look lovingly into yours and a pair of red lips turned up to yours,--and tell me if you would not have closed your eyes to the future, and accepted this precious gift as though it were sent from above?"

The pale, shrunken face of the speaker glowed, and his faded eyes lit up with the light of love.

"We were happy for a time, and the little gal was born, but the b.u.mper crop did not come. Then, sir, I sold farm tools and my horse, and sent the wife to a hill station for her health. I kept the little gal. I stayed to work, as none of my natives ever worked. It was a gay station to which she went. You know the rest,--she never came back. That ended the struggle. I would have shot myself but for the little one. I took her and we wandered here and there, doing odd jobs for a few months at a time. I drifted down to Singapore, hoping to better myself, but, sir, I am about used up. It's hard--hard."

He buried his head in his long, thin fingers, and sat perfectly still.

There was a sound outside above the roar of the wind and the rain. At first faint and intermittent, it grew louder, and continuous, and came close. There was no mistaking it,--the march of booted men.

"What's that?" asked my companion, with a start.

"Tommy Atkins," I replied, "the clang of the ammunition boot as big as life."

His face grew ashy white, and he looked furtively around the room.

"What's the matter?" I exclaimed, but as I asked, I knew.

I opened the bath-room door and shoved him in.

"Go in there" I said, "and compose some more fairy tales."

He was scarcely out of sight when the front door was thrown open, and a corporal's guard, wet yet happy, marched into the room.

The corporal stood with his back to the door, and gave himself mental words of command,--"Eyes left, eyes right,"--then, as a last resource,--"eyes under the table." He had not noticed the little bundle in the dark corner. He drew himself up and gave the military salute.

"Beg pardon, sir, but we are out for a deserter from the 58th,--Bill Hulish,--we 'ave tracked him 'ere, and with the compliments of the commanding hofficer, we'll search the 'ouse."

"Search away," I answered, as I heard the outside bath-room door open and close softly.

They returned empty-handed, but not greatly disappointed.

"Wet night, corporal," I ventured.

"One of the worst as ever I knew, sir," he replied, eying the whiskey bottle and the two half-drained gla.s.ses.

"'Ad a long march, sir, fourteen miles."

I pushed the bottle toward him, and with a deprecatory salute he turned out a stiff drink.

"'Ere's to yer 'ealth, sir, an' may ye always 'ave an extra gla.s.s ready for a visitor."

I smiled, and motioned for his men to do likewise, and then, because he was a man of sweet composure and had not asked any questions as to the extra gla.s.s and chair, told him that his bird had flown.

"Bad 'cess to him, sir, 'e's led us a pretty chase for these last four weeks. If 'e was only a deserter I wouldn't mind, but 'e's a kidnapper. Leastways, Tommy Loud's young'n turned up missin' the day he skipped, an' we ain't seen nothin' of 'er since."

"Is this she?" I asked, leading him to the cot.

Hardly looking at the child, he raised her in his arms and kissed her.

"G.o.d be praised, sir," he said with a show of feeling. "We 'ave got her back. I think her mother would 'ave died if we 'ad come back again without her,--but, O my little darlin', you look cruel bad. Drugged, sir, that's what she is. Drugged to keep 'er quiet and save food. The blag'ard!"

"But what did he take her for?" I asked.

"Bless you, sir," replied the corporal, "she was his stock in trade. I reckon she's drawn many dibs out of other people's pockets that would 'ave been nestlin' there to-day if it 'adn't 'a' bin for 'er."

Then a broad grin broke over his ruddy features, and he looked at me quizzically.

"But 'e was a great play hactor, sir."

"And a poet," I added enthusiastically.

"'E could beat Kipling romancin', sir." He checked himself, as though ashamed of awarding such meed of praise to his ex-colleague.

"But we must be goin'; orders strict. With your permission, sir, I will leave her with a guard of one man for to-night, and send the ambulance for her in the morning."

He drew up his little file, saluted, and marched out into the rain and wind, with all the cheerfulness of a duck.

I could hear them singing as they crossed the compound and struck into the jungle road:--

"Oh, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' 'Tommy, go away'; But it's 'Thank you, Mister Atkins,' when the band begins to play, The band begins to--"