"I fell in bad ways in spite of her saintly love, and ran away to sea."
"Look here, my friend," I said, "I am sorry to spoil your little tale,
but it is an old one. Can't you give me something new? Now try again."
He looked at me unsteadily under his thin eyebrows, shuffled restlessly
in his seat, and said with something like a sob in his voice:--
"Well, sir, I will. You have been kind to me and taken my little gal
in; you saved her life, and, for a change, I'll tell you the truth."
He drew himself up a little too ostentatiously, threw his head back,
and said proudly:--
"I am a gentleman born."
"Good," I laughed. "Now you are on the right track, and besides you
look it."
"Ah! you may sneer," he retorted, "but I tell you the truth."
His face flushed and his lip quivered. He brought his fist down on
the table.
"I tell you my father,--ah! but never mind my father." His voice
failed him.
"Certainly," I replied. "Only get on with your story."
"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 God's
truth. May I be struck dead if one lie passes 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 nigger, and for a time was able to meet my naked
creditor, from month to month, hoping all the time against hope for
a bumper crop."
"I understand," I said. "Your bumper 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
bumper 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.