"Boy, bring the gentleman a whiskey and soda."
The "boy" brought the liquor, while I commenced to unstrap and dry
my Winchester.
My fellow-countryman did not move, but stood nervously tottering from
one leg to the other, as I went on with my task. He coughed once or
twice to attract my attention.
"Beg pardon, sir, but I meant work--good, honest work. Work was what
I wanted, to earn this very glass of whiskey for my little gal. She's
sick, sir, sick--sick in a hut at the station."
"Your little what?" I asked in amazement.
"My little gal, sir. She's all that's left me. If you'll trust me
with the glass, I'll take it to her. Can't give you no security,
I'm afraid, only the word of a broken-down old father, who has got
a little gal what he loves better than life!"
My long experience with tramps and beach-combers was at fault. No
words can convey an idea of the pathos and humility he threw into
his tone and actions. The yearning of the voice, the almost divine
air of self-abnegation, the subdued flash of pride here and there
that suggested better days, the hopeless droop of the arms, and the
irresolute tremble of the corners of his mouth would have appealed
to the heart of a heathen idol. That one of his caste should refuse
a glass of "Usher's Best," and be willing to brave the burst of a
southwest monsoon to take it to any one--child, mother, or wife--was
incredible.
"Drink it," I said roughly. "You will need it before you get to the
station. Boy, bring me my waterproof and an umbrella. Now out you
go. We'll see whether this 'little gal' is male or female,--seven
or seventy."
The loafer snatched up his helmet with an avidity that admitted of
no question as to his earnestness.
We made a wild rush down across the oozing compound, through a little
strip of dripping jungle, over a swaying foot-bridge that spanned
the muddy Sonji Changhi, and along the sandy floor of a cocoanut
grove. On the outskirts of a station we came upon a deserted bungalow,
that was trembling in the storm on its rotten supports.
We went up its rickety ladder and across its open bamboo floor, to
the darkest corner, where, on an old mat under the only dry spot in
the hut, lay a bundle of rags.
My companion dropped down among the decayed stumps of pineapples and
cocoanut refuse, and commenced to croon in a hoarse voice, "Daddy
come,--Daddy come,--poor dearie," and made a motion as though to put
the bottle to a small, dirty white face that I could just make out
among the rags.
I pushed him aside and gathered the unconscious little burden up into
my arms. There was no time for sentiment. Every minute I expected
the miserable old shelter would go over.
We made our way as best we could back through the darkness and
driving blasts of rain. The loafer followed with a long series of "God
bless you's." He essayed once or twice to hold the umbrella over his
"little gal's" head, but each time the wind turned it inside out, and
he gave it up with an air of feeble inconsequence that characterized
all his movements.
I put my burden down on a couch in the dining room, and chafed her
hands and feet, while the boy brought a beer bottle filled with
hot water.
It was a sweet little face, pinched and drawn, with big hazel eyes,
that looked up into mine as my efforts sent the blood coursing through
her veins. She was between five and six years old. A mass of dark
brown hair, unkempt and matted, fell about her face and shoulders.