A little later I roused her, and she nestled her damp little head
against my shoulder as I gave her some soup; but her eyelids were
heavy, and it seemed almost cruel to keep her awake, even for the
food she so badly needed. The father had shuffled about uneasily
during my motherly attentions, and seemed relieved when I was through.
While the boy brought a steaming hot curry and a goodly supply of
whiskey and soda, I turned the self-confessed father of the big hazel
eyes into the bath-room.
With the grime and dirt off his face he was pale and haggard. There
were big blue marks under his shifting gray eyes and his hair hung
ragged and singed about his ears.
He had discarded his dirty linen for a blue-flannel bathing-suit that
some former high official of H. B. M. service had left behind. There
were traces of starvation or dissipation in every movement. His hand
trembled as he conveyed the hot soup to his blue lips.
Gradually the color came back to his sunken cheeks, and by the time
he had laid in the second plate of curry and drank two whiskey and
sodas he looked comparatively sleek and respectable. Even his anxiety
for the little sleeper seemed to fade out of his weak face.
I had been watching him narrowly during the meal. I could not make
up my mind whether he was a clever actor or only an unfortunate;
he might be the latter, and still be what I was certain of,--a scamp.
The wind whistled and roared about the great verandas and into the
glassless windows with all the vehemence of a New England snowstorm. It
caught our well-protected punkah-lamps, and turned their broad flames
into spiral columns of smoke. Ever and again a flash of lightning
flared in our eyes, and revealed the water of the narrow straits
lashed into a white fury.
I should have been thankful for the company of even a dog on such a
night, and think the loafer felt it, for I could see that he was more
at ease with every crash of thunder. I tiptoed over to the "little
gal," and noted her soft, regular breathing and healthful sleep,
undisturbed by the fierce storm outside.
I lit a manila, and handed one to my companion. We puffed a moment
in silence, while the boy replenished our glasses.
"Now," I said, tipping my chair back against the wall, "tell me
your story."
My guest's face at once assumed the expression of the professional
loafer. My faith in him began to wane.
"I am an American," he began glibly enough under the combined effects
of the whiskey and dinner, "an old soldier. I fought with Grant in
the Wilderness, and--"
"Of course," I interrupted, "and with Sherman in Georgia. I have heard
it all by a hundred better talkers than you. Suppose you skip it."
I did not look up, but I was perfectly familiar with the expression
of injured innocence that was mantling his face.
He began again in a few minutes, but his voice had lost some of its
engaging frankness.
"I am the son of a kind and indulgent mother,--God bless her. My
father died before I knew him--"