Time had gone on after his good old fashion, moving silently and
insidiously, seeming to crawl to those who were waiting for something,
till it suddenly dawns upon them that he has been making tremendous
strides with those long legs of his which puzzled the little girl who
asked her mother whether it was true that Time had those means of
progression. Many will remember that the mother asked the child why she
supposed that Time had legs, "Because," she replied, "people speak about
the lapse of Time, and if he has laps he must have legs to make them
of."
The troubles connected with the disappearance of the belt, and the
unpleasant weeks during which masters, scholars, and servants seemed to
have been mentally poisoned by suspicion and were all disposed to look
askant at each other, had passed away, and, in his busy avocations and
joining in the school sports, Singh was disposed to look upon the theft
of his pseudo-heirloom as something which had never happened.
"Even if it had been real, Glyn," he said one night as they lay talking
across the room in the dark, and the boy had grown into a much more
philosophical state of mind, "what would it have mattered?"
"Not a jolly bit," said Glyn drowsily.
"I suppose it's being here in England," continued Singh, "where you
people don't think so much about dressing up, and getting to be more
English myself, that I don't seem to care about ornaments as I used.
Sometimes I think it was very stupid of me to want to bring such a thing
to school with me in my travelling-trunk."
"Awfully," grumbled Glyn.
"What!" cried Singh sharply.
Glyn started. "Eh! What say?" he cried, and a yawn followed.
"You said `awfully.'"
"Did I?" said Glyn, more sleepily than ever.
"Why, you know you did," cried Singh petulantly.
"What did I say that for?"
"Ugh!" grunted Singh. "There, go to sleep. What's the good of talking
to you?"
"Not a bit," replied Glyn; "it only sounds like _buzz, buzz_."
"I haven't patience with you," cried Singh; "when I was trying to talk
quietly and sensibly about losing my belt."
"Bother your old belt!" cried Glyn. "Who wants to talk quietly and
sensibly now? I came to bed to sleep, and every time I'm dozing off
nicely and comfortably you begin _burr, burr, burr_, and I can't
understand you a bit."
"I wish we were in India," said Singh angrily.
"I wish you were," growled Glyn.
"I should like to set a punkah-wallah to pick up a chatty of water and
douse it all over you."
"He'd feel very uncomfortable afterwards," said Glyn, "if I got hold of
him. Oh, bother! bother! bother!" he cried, sitting up in bed. "Now
then, preach away. What do you want to say about your ugly old belt?"
"Go to sleep," cried Singh, and there was a dull sound of Glyn's head
going bang down into the pillow, in which his right ear was deeply
buried while his left was carefully corked with a finger, and a minute
or two later nothing was heard in the dormitory but the steady restful
breathing of two strong healthy lads.
"What shall we do to-day; go out somewhere for a good walk?" asked Glyn
the next morning.
"No; I want to have a quiet talk. Let's go down to the jungle, as you
call it," said Singh.
"Thy slave obeys," cried Glyn. "But, jungle! poor old jungle! What
wouldn't I give for a ride on a good elephant again--a well-trained
fellow, who would snap off boughs and turn one into a _chowri_ to whisk
off the flies."
"Wouldn't old Ramball's Rajah do for you?"
"To be sure. I wonder what has become of the old boy. Roaming round
the country somewhere, I suppose. What a rum old chap he was, with his
hat in one hand, yellow silk handkerchief in the other, and his shiny
bald head. Yes, I wonder where he is."
"Ramballing," cried Singh, with a peculiar smile on his countenance; and
then he started in wonder, for Glyn made a dash at him, caught him by
the wrist, and made believe to feel his pulse in the most solemn manner.
"What are you doing that for?" cried Singh.
"Wait a moment," replied Glyn.--"No. Beating quite steadily. Skin
feels cool and moist."
"Why, of course," said Singh. "What do you mean?"
"I thought you must be ill to burst out with a bad joke like that."
"Oh, stuff!" cried Singh impatiently. "It's just as good as yours.
Yes," he continued thoughtfully, "it is very nice here; but I should
like another ride through the old jungle; and this old row of
elm-trees--pah! how different."
The two lads remained very thoughtful as they walked slowly across the
cricket-field, mentally seeing the wild forest of the East with its
strange palms that run from tree to tree, rising up or growing down,
here forming festoons, there tangling and matting the lower growth
together, and always beautiful whenever seen.
Strange musings for a couple of schoolboys, who never once connected
these objects of their thoughts with the stringent master's cane--the
rattan or properly _rotan_-cane or climbing-palm.
They stopped at last in their favourite place beneath the elms, and
stood with their hands in their pockets and their shoulders against the
park-palings--the patch that looked newish, but which was gradually
growing grey under the influence of the weather that was oxidising the
new nails and sending a ruddy stain through the wood.
Neither spoke, but stood gazing up through the elm boughs, their
thoughts far away in Northern India, dwelling upon active monkeys,
peacocks and other gorgeously plumaged birds, tigers haunting nullahs
and crouching among the reeds. All at once there was a strange panting
sound, and a scratching behind them on the park-palings which made the
two lads start away and turn to gaze at their late support, for the
sound suggested, if not a tiger some other savage beast trying to climb
the division between the Doctor's premises and the adjoining estate.
The next moment eight fat fingers appeared grasping the palings, there
was the scratching of a boot on one of the supporting posts, and a
round, red, fat face rose above the top of the fence like a small
representation of the sun gradually topping a bank of mist upon a foggy
morning.