desert of sands, and almost bewilderingly green amidst thickets of
banana trees.
A tall fat man showed in the verandah of the opposition.
"_Guten, morgen, mien freund_," he called, with superb indifference. "I
gif you welcome."
That was doubtless Franz Braun, the German rival, and Alexander Blooker
hated him at sight; but he kept his dignity.
"The same to you, sir," he replied stiffly, "I trust trade is good."
"It is goot for me," remarked Franz Braun, with an air for which
Alexander Blooker could have kicked him. That being impossible owing to
their relative sizes, the little man relieved his bellicose feelings by
beginning on "'Twas in Trafalgar Bay." It still had for him the charm
of novelty to be able to beat time when and where he chose.
"_Mein Gott!_" shouted Franz Braun excitedly over the way. "_Wass fur
eine Stimme! Wunderbar!_"
It was the voice that did it. But for it the armed neutrality of the
past between the rival firms might have remained in the future; as it
was, an hour afterwards Alexander Blooker was politely but steadily
refusing to sing a second to the "Wacht am Rhein," although Franz Braun
(who had an equally good high tenor, after the fashion of tall burly
men) wept on his shoulder and called him "_Bruderlein_."
"You must to the pastor-house this evening," sighed the big creature at
last, "Fraulein Anna, who is to the Pastor Schmidt daughter, will make
you sing. She is _my verlobte_. I will to her be married, but she will
make you sing."
Nevertheless, neither her yellow hair nor her blue eyes beguiled
Alexander Blooker from his fixed determination; but they sang together
for half the night, and the memory of Fraulein Anna's soaring soprana,
as the notes of "Oh! for the wings of a dove" floated into the hot air,
was with him as, despite the lateness of the hour, he set all in
readiness for the morrow. Since on the next day's doings much depended;
for it was the yearly market-day, on which all the native traders from
far and near came to buy goods. Alexander Blooker, in fact, had hurried
his _doongah_ up the sinking river so as to reach the Distant Depot in
time for it. His last task was the undoing of one of the small bales
which throughout their journey had been the objects of his special
care.
"It you tike a' hinch you may as well tike the h'ell," he murmured, as
he cut the packing threads by the dim light--for he had refused to use
the "Made in Germany" lamp of his predecessor. Then, with a sigh of
satisfaction, he held up the top one of the hard-pressed pile of
printed cotton handkerchiefs.
"That ought to fetch 'em," he said admiringly. Certainly it might
have "fetched" anything and everything. To use heraldic terms, the
field of the kerchief was gules, argent and azure, arranged in
_saltire_--otherwise, a Union Jack. An _escutcheon of pretence_ bore
the Queen's head _regardant_, while _quarterly_, _en surtout_, were: on
the first, _gules_, three lions _passant_, or, for England; on the
second, or, a lion _rampant_ within a double _tressure flory counter
flory_, _gules_, for Scotland; on the third, azure, a harp, _or_,
stringed _argent_, for Ireland; on the fourth?--well!--why the fourth
field should have been charged with specimens from a pack of cards,
Alexander Blooker did not know. It was a blot on the _scutcheon_, no
doubt; but two days had not sufficed for the printing of a special
design, and this was the best he had been able to find. Besides, in a
measure, it was true. There was no blinking the fact that even British
civilisation was apt to bring gambling and drinking with it.
The next day the whole place was full up with native traders and
natives generally. The first sight of them made Alexander Blooker
wonder why they were so eager for piece goods, considering how little
of them they wore! But then he had hardly realised that beyond that
northerly desert lay a huge tract of densely-populated, almost unknown
land.
Trade was brisk over the way at Franz Braun's store. The cheap German
muslins, guaranteed full length, and packed in convenient carriageable
size, went off like smoke; and it was not until the best lots had gone
off that a trader thought it worth while to give a perfunctory glance
at Alexander Blooker's consignments. Then his eye fell instantly on the
heraldic handkerchiefs.
"Sell, how much?" he asked.
Alexander Blooker shook his head. "They are not for sale, sir," he
replied loftily. "They are a gift. An Imperial gift from Her Gracious
Majesty the Queen of England. Everyone as buys forty yards of English
stuff has one of them given in, free, gratis, and for nothin'. Him as
buys two, has three, and so on--much the same as parcel post rates."
It took two interpreters to bring home this admixture of patriotism and
progressive bribery to the limited brains of purchasers, but when it
did find its way into their understanding, the effect was marvellous.
Before the sun set Alexander Blooker had to conceal his last bale of
handkerchiefs against the year which must elapse before he could get a
new supply.
"So! _mein freund_," said Franz Braun, with a good-natured laugh. "It
is well; but it is not trade!"
"It will be trade," replied little Alexander stoutly. "I am going to
work this job on Imperial lines."
It grew to be a joke in this Distant Depot, as it had been in the City
office where the yellow fog lay on the windows like cotton wool; but
here Mr. Blooker had liberty to beat time to anything he chose. And it
was surprising how the natives took to him. He must have spent a good
deal of his fifty pounds on the purchase of medicines, for his morning
dispensary soon out-rivalled Pastor Schmidt's--who, in truth, was
growing a bit old for the work. He had lost his wife of late years, his
daughter was betrothed to Franz Braun (who had a promise of a post
elsewhere), and the hearts of all three held hope of change in the near
future which hindered much enthusiasm in the present. Not that there
had ever been much of it in their lives; even the old missionary had
gone on his way coolly, if conscientiously.
Alexander Blooker, on the contrary, was always at fever heat. He
managed to transfer some of his ardour even through the lengthy mail to
"Our Firm," so that when the river route reopened, a double consignment
of dry goods took advantage of the water. The last penny, too, of the
fifty pounds had gone, through Mr. Mossop's agency, in handkerchiefs of
brand-new design, more heraldic, more patriotic than ever, and
guiltless of cards. Perhaps Alexander Blooker felt that, so far as he
was concerned, British civilisation was bringing no evil in its train.
And it was not. It was surprising, indeed, to see how the Distant
Depot had improved in tone. Franz Braun, who, deprived by the
difficulty of carriage of sufficient lager beer to satisfy him, had
taken to over-much whisky instead, now, greatly to the delight of his
"_verlobte_," satisfied his thirst on home-made ginger-pop, brewed by a
recipe of Alexander's aunt, while the old pastor gave in with smiling
acquiescence to the appropriation by Alexander Blooker of what might be
called "parochial work." In fact, there was some talk of building
another shanty as a parish hall; for the little man was distinctly
churchy, and liked things in order. A Temperance League and a Band of
Hope had, combined with an enlarged liver, made the liquor-store keeper
take leave home, and Alexander, having offered to run the business
until another man could come out, was now conducting it with a curious
mixture of conscience and commerce.
So the eve of the next yearly market came round, and Alexander, in a
fervour of Imperialism, actually climbed up the telegraph post which
stood in one corner of his compound, and nailed a pocket-handkerchief
to it, flag-wise.
"So!" called Franz Braun from over the way, half-jocularly,
half-vexedly, "the patrol will at you haf damages when he returns."
For that single wire which sped seawards from north to south was
patrolled at intervals by a staff of engineers from the former.
"He has paid his last visit for the cool season," said Alexander
knowingly; "so there it can stay if it likes for the next four months,
at any rate."
"I wish that to me came the same certainty of liking," growled Franz
Braun, "but, you see, the Herr papa ails, and the _verlobte_ wishes him
to the Homeland to take, and I would also go if I could."
A vague alarm showed on Alexander Blooker's face. "And leave me here
alone? I'm glad you can't."
The idea, however, stuck in his brain. Supposing he were left alone,
what would he do?
After he had arranged everything to his liking for the morrow, this
idea of perfect solitude kept him from sleep and he strolled out with a
pipe to quiet his nerves in the desert.
What would he do if he were left alone? A curious elation mixed with
his natural dread. He walked, and walked, scarcely thinking out the
question, only feeling it in that big heart of his. He had
instinctively followed the telegraph line himself so as to be sure of
not losing his way, but now he started at the sight of a solitary
figure before him, visible in the moonlight, advancing to him, and
keeping the same bee-line swiftly yet stumblingly, with a pause as for
a few seconds' rest at each post. It was someone who was ill, or very,
very tired.
A woman, a native woman! He could hear her voice now in her pauses.
Always the same words mumbled mechanically over and over again:
"Save me, Queen-of-the-handkerchief.... Save me...."
He knew enough of the language now to understand so much, and he
waited, watching her curiously.
Across the last gap she stumbled towards him, gave one surprised look
at him, and--with a vague effort at the same words as if he had been a
telegraph post--sank down in a dead faint.
She was quite a slip of a girl, and, after a time, she came to herself;
but she was so exhausted that it was past grey dawn when Alexander
Blooker managed to get her back to the telegraph post in the corner of
his compound. And to this she clung pertinaciously, much to his
annoyance, for he wanted to get her out of the way, and find who she
was, and what she wanted, before the native traders began to turn up.
His remonstrances, however, were in vain. Her only reply was a murmured
incoherent repetition of her first appeal:
"Save me! Queen-of-the-handkerchiefs."
And every time she said it, Alexander Blooker experienced a patriotic
thrill down his back. He felt that she must at all costs be saved--but
from what?
The dawn grew from grey to gold.
"_Gott in Himmel!_" laughed Franz Braun, coming down very early because
of something he had forgotten. "_Mein Alexander mit a Madchen! Ach!_
fie!"
"Stop your silly jaw and find out what she is wanting," cried Alexander
Blooker fiercely, "or help me to get her into the shanty before the
traders come."
"_Mein bruderlein_," replied Franz Braun solemnly, "when you have so long
as me been in savage places you will-not-to-redress-women's-wrongs-learn."
Alexander Blooker swelled visibly. "That sentiment is made in
Germany, sir. She has appealed to that"--he pointed to the flag
pocket--handkerchief on the telegraph post which was waving in the
breeze of dawn--"and, by George! she shall have protection!"
There was nothing more to be said, not even when some of the traders,
coming on the scene, recognised the girl as the daughter of a powerful
chief in the northern land, who would be certain to give trouble were
she harboured by the Distant Depot. It would be better to send her back
in their charge. How she had found her way so far was a mystery; she
must have followed the telegraph posts day by day, have slept in their
shadow night by night.
Some vague confused sense of the poetry of this--night after night
sleeping, all unconsciously as it were, under the flag of England--day
after day following the course of light to freedom, rose in Alexander's
throat, and half-choked him.
"She shall stay," he said. "Let her father come to fetch her; if he is
in the right, he shall have her."
"My dear sir," quavered old Pastor Schmidt, "he will not time for
explanation give. I was in a to-be-compared position once. I will not
be so again. I will take my daughter-ling away. I will go. There is no
good in staying to be massacred when pension has become due."
It was all to no purpose. Alexander Blooker stood firm. The utmost he
would do was to write a conciliatory letter for the traders to give on
their return to the girl's father, saying that his daughter had been
handed over to the charge of a suitable matron, and that he might have
her again if adequate explanations were tendered to Her Gracious
Britannic Majesty's representative at the Distant Depot. And here the
great temptation of his life came to Alexander Blooker. He would have
loved to sign himself "Consul C.M.G." No one would be the wiser. But
the sense of duty was strong within him, and he refrained.
This being so, Pastor Schmidt incontinently determined not to brave the
certainty, as he deemed it, of coming trouble. His Society in the West
was prepared for his possible return. The details of how the work could
be carried on by a native deacon during the six months before a new
pastor could arrive were all settled. Nothing but a half-conscious
feeling that to retire would be to sign his warrant of dismissal from
what had been to him his life, had kept him hitherto from decision.
Now, the river was falling fast; they must take their chance of escape
while they could get it.
And Franz Braun? After two days of moody helping to pack his
"_verlobte's_" belongings, he came to say, not without a certain
tremble in his voice:
"_Bruderlein_, I also go--so far anyhow--my firm said so much a month
ago--to-night thou wilt be alone."
There was not much time for Alexander Blooker to realise his position
until, as the cool of the night came on, he stood by the last little
landing-stage on the river, watching the Noah's-ark-boat as it punted
its way slowly through the network of sandbanks.
Behind him as he stood, flared the red glories of the setting sun; in
front of him, the long stretches of sand, the winding gleams of the
shrinking river were fast losing each other in the purple-blue shadows
of coming night. From the lessening speck of the boat as it drifted
downwards on the current came half-regretful, half-joyful farewells.
The native congregation, assembled in full force, sent after it
wailing outcries; but Alexander Blooker was silent, save for one brief
"Good-bye, Fraulein Anna! Good-bye, Pastor Schmidt! Good-bye, Franz
Braun!"
The sliding shadow of the boat had disappeared into the oncoming night
for his short-sighted eyes, long before the still savage congregation
lost it, but he stood staring on where it had been long after they had
gone home contentedly. Then he turned suddenly. The red had almost
faded from the sky. Only low down on the horizon lay a band of what
Ruskin held to be the highest light--pure vermilion--and against it he
could see the telegraph post, with a black speck that must be the
pocket-handkerchief of England flying at its peak.
He drew a long breath. For the first time in his life Alexander Blooker
felt that he was not a slave.
* * * * *
Six months after, the first _doongah_ of the season punted and sailed
up the river again. The Distant Depot was deserted; but there was no
sign of disorder in it. The English flag still flew from the telegraph
post. The Pastor's house, which Alexander Blooker had been implored to
occupy and keep in order, looked, save for the dust which always
gathered from the desert, as if he must have been there but a few days
before. The garden was ablaze with flowers. The clusters of native huts
had disappeared, and in their place neat streets of low wattle and dab
dwellings converged outwards from quite an imposing edifice with
"Church Hall" marked on it conspicuously. The liquor shop had
disappeared. Franz Braun's dry goods store was closed and the British
one removed to a portion of the central building.
The little Mission Chapel also was utterly changed. The seats removed
to make room for clean matting on which the native congregation could
squat. Everything western or of western symbolism swept away, and in
their place, ingeniously adapted to their present purpose, were things
held sacred by the natives. Here an English school had evidently had
its quarters, for copybooks, headed in a neat hand "If you take an
inch, you may as well take an ell," were found there. Also a few
chapters of the New Testament written out in the same handwriting.
The tiny cemetery behind the chapel, surrounded on three sides by
banana thickets, remained unaltered, save that, just under the east
window, three of the heraldic pocket-handkerchiefs were pegged to the
ground in an oblong.
What had happened?
The yearly market day brought vague, inconsistent rumours from the
mouths of many merchants.
Nothing was known for certain. The "Lord-of-Handkerchiefs" had
remained, of course. It was said that the chief had come for his
daughter. Nothing had happened. Only the Handkerchief-Lord had, as they
might see, built palaces.
He was a Great Chief. The people simply would not live without him when
he died. So, at least, they had said as they came through the villages
beyond the desert on their way north. How long ago? Ah! not long; they
were afraid, see you, of the new gentlemen. They preferred to begin
afresh elsewhere. That would doubtless be his grave at the back of the
chapel. He was a great loss to the country. No one gave handkerchiefs
away as he did.
So the Distant Depot had to go on its way without further details. Only
the traces of Alexander Blooker's short rule remained, and the new
inhabitants who soon gathered to fill the trim walls and dab houses
benefited by them.
One day, however, when almost a year had gone by, the new pastor found
that the oblong of handkerchiefs in the cemetery, instead of being worn
and faded by sun and rain was, apparently, brand new.
Someone must have renewed it in the night. And on the top of it,
written out in wobbly round hand, was the last copy Alexander Blooker
had set:
"If you take an inch you may as well take an ell."
From which the Distant Depot inferred that it was his death-day.
THE REGENERATION OF DAISY
BELL
"It is quite out of the question," said the Adjutant, severely. "Major
Primmer has formerly complained, and the C.O. has desired me to--to--to
see that the nuisance is abated----"
So far, regimental discipline kept the Adjutant's risible muscles under
control; then he smiled, for he was more human than adjutants are wont
to be in orderly room. "And, upon my soul, youngster," he went on,
picking up a letter which lay beside him, "it is a bit hard on Primmer.
I can imagine his disgust! H'm, h'm--'_have to report_'--Ah! here--'_As
usual, I woke with the entry of my body-servant bringing my early tea.
As usual, also, I lay for a few moments to collect my thoughts; but
when I turned to pour out the beverage_'--good old Primmer--'_my
disgust was great to find Lieutenant Graham's so-called tame monkey--I
may interpolate that it is a specimen of the Presbytis schistaceus, a
bold and predatory tribe, and not the Presbytis entellus, a much milder
race_'--good old Primmer again; he's nothing if not exact--'_in full
possession of my tea-table. The brute had consumed all the toast, save
one crust, which I regret to say it threw at me when I attempted
remonstrance_.'"
We both laughed.
"Can't you see Major Primmer, V.C., sitting up in bed with his
eye-glasses on, in a mortal funk," I began, trying to brazen it out.
But official decorum had resumed its sway over the Adjutant, and he
read on:
"'_It then proceeded, with an accuracy which I cannot believe to be
entirely self-taught_'--H'm, Graham, that is serious; remember he is
your superior officer--'_to imitate closely my method of pouring out
tea. This is peculiar, as I invariably put the milk in first. My
efforts at checking the lawless brute were again quite unavailing; and
resulted only in the deliberate emptying of the scalding hot tea over
my nether garments_.'"
"Why couldn't he say his pyjamas," I groaned, captiously; for I
recognised that things had gone a bit too far. I had had no idea Jennie
had such a fund of humour.
But once more official decorum failed to respond.
"'_This, I may add, it did again and again, until the teapot was
exhausted. It then pouched the whole contents of the sugar-basin, drank
the milk, and smeared its head with the butter. The latter action
appeared to arouse reminiscence. It repaired to my dressing-table,
brushed its hair with my brushes, used my pommade hongroise, and then
proceeding to the wash-hand-stand, nefariously laid hold of my
tooth-brush. This, however, was too much. I rose. At the same moment my
body-servant providently appeared with my hot water, and the brute,
jabbering at me in unseemly fashion, made for the window, which I
always keep open winter and summer. I have already requested Lieutenant
Graham to remove this savage animal; and now have no option_ ...'"
The Adjutant laid down the letter. "It's hard on Primmer," he said,
with almost superhuman solemnity; "the tooth-brush incident was----" he
resumed speech after a brief pause, "and he is a good sort is old
Primmer."
I was perfectly aware of the fact. Only the week before, when we were
out in the jungle, he had dosed me with quinine and taken my
temperature every two hours during an attack of fever and ague.
So Jennie the monkey must give way; but what the deuce was I to do with
her? I did not want to have to shoot her.
"Give her to Tootsie," suggested the Adjutant, sympathetically; "I
heard her say not long ago she would give anything for a monkey."
It was a brilliant idea. Miss d'Aguilar, familiarly known as Tootsie,
performed the arduous duties of spinster to our little frontier
station; so that afternoon, before going on duty, I rode round by "The
Forest," so called, I presume, because there was not a bit of
vegetation larger than a caper bush between it and the Beluchistan
Hills.
I found the young lady and her mother--a frankly black-and-tan lady who
looked as if she would have been more comfortable with a veil to roll
round her fat person--engaged, after their wont, in entertaining some
of the junior subalterns at tea. As I entered, Tootsie--a sparkling
brunette with gloriously startling Titian brown hair, due to cunning
applications of henna dye (there were traces of it on Mamma's
hands)--was, in a high-pitched staccato voice, recounting with arch
gaiety, her impressions of Calcutta, whence she had but lately
returned. "Yes! I do declare the men are just sillies. Why! do not
believe me, but I asked a young fellow in a Europe shop to bring me
flesh-coloured stockings, and he brought me tan! Was he not a silly
boy?"
The pause which inevitably followed this anecdote seemed a fitting
opportunity for somewhat sentimentally offering Jennie. Had I offered a
bomb the effect could not have been more disastrous. Miss grew crimson;
Mamma, purple and plethoric, wondered how any gentleman could keep such
a nasty brute, still less offer it as a fit companion to an innocent
young girl.
Evidently Jennie had again got herself disliked; how, the junior sub.
told me succinctly as we rode home.
"You see, Tootsie dyes her hair--and henna's a bit of a lengthy
business. They don't mind me, I'm only a boy; but she has to have it
plastered over her head for hours. So she has a big hat with a false
bun and fringe for these occasions. And Jennie got hold of it somehow
last week. I happened to be there; and, by George, I chevied the beast
half over cantonments before she would give it up--she's a regular
devil."
I sighed. Evidently the culprit must be shot. She had no friends.
As I came up to the guardroom, however, I heard a song being lilted out
by a tenor voice into the hot dusty air. The refrain of London sounded
odd here in the desert on the confines of civilisation:
"Dy'sy, Dy'sy, give me yer answer dew,
I'm half cry'sy, all for the love o' yew."
"Yes, sir," reported the sergeant. "It's Dy'sy, sure enough. He's in
agin; more often in nor out."