An officer in India, whose stock of table-linen had been completely
exhausted during the campaign,--either by wear or tear or accident,--had
a few friends to dine with him. The dinner being announced to the party,
seated in the _al fresco_ drawing-room of a camp, the table appeared
spread with eatables, but without the usual covering of a cloth. The
master, who, perhaps, gave himself but little trouble about these
matters, or who probably relied upon his servant's capacity in the art
of borrowing, or, at all events, on his ingenuity on framing an excuse,
inquired, with an angry voice, why there was no table-cloth. The answer
was, "Massa not got;" with which reply, after apologizing to his guests,
he was compelled, for the present, to put up. The next morning he called
his servant, and rated him soundly, and perhaps beat him, (for I lament
to say that this was too much the practice with European masters in
India,) for exposing his poverty to the company; desiring him, another
time, if similarly circumstanced, to say that all the table-cloths were
gone to the wash. Another day, although the table appeared clothed in
the proper manner, the spoons, which had probably found their way to the
bazar, perhaps to provide the very articles of which the feast was
composed, were absent, whether with or without leave is immaterial.
"Where are all the spoons?" cried the apparently enraged master. "Gone
washerman, sar!" was the answer. Roars of laughter succeeded, and a
teacup did duty for the soup-ladle. The probable consequence of this
unlucky exposure of the domestic economy of the host, namely, a sound
drubbing to the poor maty-boy, brings to my mind an anecdote which,
being in a story-telling vein, I cannot resist the temptation of
introducing. It was related to me, with great humour, by one of the
principals in the transaction, whose candour exceeded his fear of shame.
He had been in the habit of beating his servants, till one in particular
complained that he would have him before Sir Henry Gwillam, then chief
justice at Madras, who had done all in his power to suppress the
disgraceful practice. Having a considerable balance to settle with his
maty-boy on the score of punishment, but fearing the presence of
witnesses, the master called him one day into a bungalow at the bottom
of his garden, at some distance from the house. "Now," said he as he
shut the door and put the key into his pocket, "you'll complain to Sir
Henry Gwillam, will you? There is nobody near to bear witness to what
you may say, and, with the blessing of God, I'll give it you
well."--"Massa sure nobody near?" asked the Indian.--"Yes, yes, I've
taken good care of that."--"Then I give massa one good beating." And
forthwith the maty-boy proceeded to put his threat into execution, till
the master, being the weaker of the two, was compelled to cry mercy;
which being at length granted, and the door opened with at least as much
alacrity as it was closed, Maotoo decamped without beat of drum, never
to appear again.--_Twelve Years' Military Adventures, &c._
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