CRACKERS AND SQUIBS
'_Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar_.'
'Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar_.'
'Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar_.'
The damnable iteration went on and on, the fiddles twangled and
squeaked, the drum bangers banged, the nautch-girl sidled, and smirked,
and shrilled.
'_Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star. Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar_.'
Lesley Drummond, sitting in the front row of guests at the reception
given by the nobles and landed proprietors of the Province to welcome
Sir George Arbuthnot to his new office, shut her eyes at last in sheer
despair of being able to reconcile the senses of hearing and sight;
then opened them again to stare with unappeasable curiosity into the
blaze of light, veiled by a fine film of misty smoke, in which all
things seemed clear, yet dim.
It came from the prism-hung chandeliers which hid the low white-marble
ceiling, from the wretched paraffin wall-lamps hung against the
white-marble pillars, from the paper lanterns swinging from the
scalloped white-marble arches. But it came most of all from the garden
beyond the arches in which this white-marble summer-palace of a dynasty
of dead kings stood, centring the formal walks and watercourses; for it
was lit up in long close rows of soft twinkling lights stretching away
into the purple shadows of the night, until, climbing to every line,
every curve of the purple shadow of the distant city, they showed like
new stars upon the purple shadow of the sky.
The radiance of it, the brilliance of it, dazzled the eyes; the
dimness, the misty dreaminess of it clouded the brain. She felt
drugged, hypnotised out of realities, as she looked towards the dais
where Sir George, the Star of his Order almost hidden by one of the
huge tinsel garlands which had been thrown round the neck of the guests
as they entered, sat in a gilt chair, his solitary figure outlined
harshly, by reason of his dark political uniform, against the
background of white-marble tracery. Thence she looked to the English
ladies in gay _décolletés_ dresses who, with a sprinkling of black
coats and red tunics, banked the dais on either side. So to the line of
officials and soldiers edging the gangway below the dais. Finally, on
to the hosts themselves who sate behind in rows. Rows on rows ablaze
with colour and sparkle. Rows on rows imperturbable, passive, without a
smile or a frown for the scene in which they bore so large a part.
So far, however, despite those great tinsel garlands which were so
distracting a novelty upon black coats, scarlet tunics, and
_décolletés_ dresses, a certain relevancy to the central idea, embodied
in that solitary figure of an elderly Englishman raised above the rest,
was not wanting in the details of the spectacle.
But what, thought Lesley, could be said of that group upon the square
of red and green-flowered Brussels carpet spread immediately in front
of the dais? Spread between the gilt sofa where she sat with Jerry
between her and Lady Arbuthnot, and a similar gilt sofa on the other
side occupied by the general's wife and her two daughters.
What an inconceivably unsuitable surrounding they made, five
Englishwomen and a child, to those other five and a child? Two
ragged drum bangers, two dissipated fiddle and guitar twangers, a
dreamy-looking boy doing nothing, and the usual posturing dancer, stout
as to figure, bunchy as to petticoats, with glued bandeaux of hair and
a nasal quavering voice which paused only for furtive swallowings of
the betel-nut she was chewing all too palpably!
'_Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star_.' She trilled with an affable,
opulent curve of hip and hand towards the _sahib logue_ collectively,
for whose delectation she was singing 'Englis fassen'; an
accomplishment she had learned from a girl who had been taught hymns in
a mission school.
'_Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar_'--she simpered with a special coquettish
flirt of her fingers and full petticoat for that respectable father of
a family, Sir George, who, honest man, sat horribly conscious, still
more horribly bored, yet patient, waiting for the master of the
ceremonies to ask him if he had had enough.
Enough?
He looked past the pirouettings to that thin line of white faces, bored
yet patient like his own, which fringed those rows on rows of impassive
dark ones, and stifled his yawns duteously for the sake of the Empire.
No such reasons of state, however, swayed Jerry, who, dapper and dainty
in knee-breeches, silk stockings, ruffles, and a little garland of his
own, sate fidgeting and yawning, yawning and fidgeting. As he looked
across the pirouettings he could see his dearest Mr. Raymond dozing
with dignity in a chair opposite, with a peculiarly magnificent garland
festooned over him. It was bigger than anybody's but dad's, Jerry told
himself, feeling a trifle aggrieved, and he wanted to ask why it was so
large, when Mr. Raymond was sitting oh! ever so far back!
'_Tinkle, tinkle, ootel ish-star!_'
The drums banged, the fiddles squeaked, the dancer postured, and Jerry
yawned with commendable monotony, till, suddenly, the little lad's
patience gave way at the two hundred and fifty-sixth time of asking the
question--'_Ha-a-vunder vart-oo-ar_.'
'Please!' he said, in his clear child's voice, 'it is the Star of India
dad's wearin'. The Queen gave it him for doin' his duty.'
'Hush--hush, Jerry!' came breathlessly from his guardians, but the
connection of ideas had been too palpable. A titter which broke from
the ladies behind him made Nevill Lloyd--who as aide-de-camp flanked
the dais, resplendent in his horse artillery uniform--absolutely choke
in his effort to be dignified, and the joyous crow which resulted quite
upset the general commanding. Then this chuckle from the right row of
officialdom did for the Secretary-to-Government heading the left, so
that his gurgle was the signal for a general roar of laughter to go
echoing up into the arches; general so far only as the white faces were
concerned. The dark ones of the hosts were immovable, keeping even
their surprise to themselves.
'Some one ought, surely, to explain,' said Lesley with a half-puzzled
frown, as, the laughter ending, a general stir of relieved chatter
showed that the audience had seized on the interruption as an end.
'Explain, my dear?' echoed Sir George, when his wife took advantage of
the stir to repeat Lesley's suggestion, and point out the dancing-girl
standing sullen, uncertain, whispering to the drum and fiddle; 'I don't
think it's worth it, and I don't see how it's to be done. Besides,
they ought to have laughed too--they really ought! That crow of
Lloyd's----'
'I'm awfully sorry, sir,' put in the offender, trying to be penitent
through his smiles; 'I'll tell you what I'll do, Lady Arbuthnot.
Raymond is bossing the supper for them from the club, and all that.
He's president of the committee of entertainment, so I'll get him----'
Sir George frowned. 'We needn't trouble Mr. Raymond, Captain Lloyd.
And as for the interruption, Grace, it rested with me to stop the
nautch-girl at any time, and they saw we were amused. That is really
all they want.'
'Just so, sir,' assented the Secretary-to-Government, a trifle ashamed
of his lapse from strict etiquette. 'And she had been at it nearly the
proper time. Only five minutes short of the half-hour we gave them. And
you can use those, sir--as the fireworks will barely be ready--in
having some of the notables up for a talk. That will set the business
more than right.'
It seemed so, indeed, judging by the radiant faces of the favoured few,
and the hopeful interest of the many, who crowded round, grateful for a
word, even, from some lesser light.
So from its Eastern formality the scene changed to Western ways. The
crowd of well-dressed women became interspersed with red coats and
political uniforms, a buzz of voices and laughter replaced the silence
broken only by the shrillings and twanglings.
The change was a peculiarly welcome one to Mrs. Chris Davenant, who,
having, of course, been seated in strict accordance with her husband's
rank, right at the back among the commercial set, had been growing
sulky over her chance of getting into better society. She had not, for
the last two days, snubbed Mr. Lucanaster persistently, in order that
she and half a dozen tailors summoned hastily should have time to turn
out a gown worthy of Paris, simply for the purpose of having _him_
compliment her on the result. She flew at higher game, and the movement
of the crowd brought her the quarry.
'Married a native, did she?' commented a big man in political uniform
with a row of medals, who was in from an out-station for the show, and
had asked who the wearer of the flame-coloured satin was; flame-colour
with ruby sparklings on the curves of hip and bosom out of which the
fair white shoulders rose barely. 'Well! I, personally, don't find the
husband in it, if the wife's pretty! Introduce me, will you, or get
some one else to do it who knows her, if you don't.'
The man to whom he spoke looked round helplessly, and, his eye falling
on Jack Raymond, he appealed to him. People in Nushapore had a trick of
applying to the secretary of the club for odd jobs.
'Ask Lucanaster,' said Jack Raymond grimly, 'he knows her awfully well,
and I don't.'
And thereinafter he watched this seething of the kid in its mother's
milk with an almost fiendish amusement. It relieved him, for one
thing, of the necessity for speaking to Mrs. Chris himself. But as he
passed the group which was every instant growing larger round the
flame-coloured satin, he said a word to Chris who was standing
listlessly on the outside of it.
'Seeing a lot of old friends, I expect.'
Chris Davenant's flush made him curse the careless remark, and at the
same moment some one came hurriedly up behind him and laid a hand on
his arm. It was a tall old man with a dash and a swing about him still;
gorgeous still, though his brocades were worn and old, and with great
ropes of pearls wound round him, and a straight bar of grey moustache
on his keen brown face, matching the grey heron's plume in his low
turban. Briefly, a Rajpoot nobleman of the old style.
'_Ai!_ counsellor of the old,' he said, affectionate confidence
struggling with vexation in his face, 'give me some of thy wisdom once
more.'
'Hullo, Rana-_sahib_! what's up? something gone wrong with the
fireworks?' asked Jack Raymond, turning at once. His tone was
friendliness itself. And no wonder. Many a time had he, hard rider as
he was, wondered at the old Thakoor of Dhurmkote's dash and pluck after
boar. Many a time had they sate up in _machâns_ after tiger together,
and many a time had Jack--wiser for the reckless, proud old sinner than
he was for himself--urged him to retrench, to keep from the usurers. In
vain. The old man, head of his clan, would only say, 'Not so, _sahib_.
If the son had lived, perhaps. But the tiger took advantage of his
youth. So let me live and die as my fathers lived and died.' And then
he would launch out into further extravagance, as fine a specimen of
the native gentleman before we meddled with the mould, as could be
found in the length and breadth of the land.
'Wrong with my fireworks?' he echoed indignantly. 'There is nothing
wrong with them, though the others stinted me, from the beginning, out
of jealousy! Yet I had fooled them. But now, because folk laughed at
God knows what, they want them earlier. It is jealousy again. It is to
ruin my reputation as _connoisseur_. I, who have spent lacs on
fireworks. I, who to prove what I could do with the miserable pittance
assigned to me, have paid Meena Buksh, firework-maker, five thousand
rupees extra--I had but two allowed me, _Huzoor_--out of mine own
pocket, or rather out of Salig Râm the usurer's, since I reft it from
him with threats--he owns land, see you, as well as money----'
Here the old man, who had been carried away thus far by his grievance,
became aware that Jack Raymond's companion was not, as he had deemed,
some young Englishman who would either not care to listen or would not
understand if he did; and in any case would not make mischief out of
the confidence. For Chris Davenant, hemmed in a corner beyond escape,
had been unable to repress a smile at the old chieftain's method of
proving his good management and economy.
'Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Krishn Davenund, Rana-_sahib_,' said
Jack Raymond hastily, noticing the old man's haughty stare. 'I think
you knew his father, _Pandit_ Sri Pershâd, judge of the Small Cause
Court.'
Considering that the magistrate in question, being more or less in
feudal relations with the Thakoors of Dhurmkote, had strained many a
point in favour of their extravagance, the acquaintance was
indisputable; yet the Rana-_sahib's salaam_ was of the curtest
compatible with courtesy to the introducer, and he drew Jack Raymond
aside to continue in a lower voice--
'They want me to be ready in ten minutes, and that means ruin; for some
fool set fire to a bit of my best set piece, and 'twill take twenty to
repair.'
'But why not begin with something else?' suggested his hearer.
The Thakoor's face was a study in triumph and disappointment. 'Because
it is a welcome to the Lât-_sahib_, and a welcome must come first. And
it is new also--a welcome in roman candles and sulphur stars; my
reputation is in it.'
'Then why not show it as it is, and explain the accident?'
The Thakoor looked uncertain. 'That might be. How would it look, think
you, _sahib_, "God," then a blank--for that is where the damage comes
in--"our new Lieutenant-Governor"? Would it be understanded, think you?
Would it look well--in Roman candles and sulphur stars?'
'God blank--that is where the damage lies,' repeated Jack Raymond
thoughtfully, and then he laughed. He had to recover himself, however,
hastily at the old man's bewildered face, and say gravely, 'I don't
think it _would_ look very well, Rana-_sahib_, especially in Roman
candles and sulphur stars.' Here another laugh obtruded itself, and
he added as a cover to it, 'But I can tell you what I _can_ do for
you--refreshments. I know _they_ are ready. I'll go off now and get the
"roastbeef" sounded.'
The old chieftain stood looking after him as he went off
enthusiastically.
'May the gods keep him! that is a man,' he said aloud to himself. 'If
all the _sahibs_ were as he, a friend----'
'India would be the happier. She needs such friends,' said Chris
Davenant suddenly. He had been trying to make up his mind ever since
the meeting at Hâfiz Ahmad's house, to take some decided step towards
organising a real party of progress. To do this in a way that would
ensure confidence with both the Government and the people, it was
necessary to secure some men of real influence; and the Thakoor was
one. His word went far, both West and East; and fate had placed him
within earshot. So Chris had spoken; his heart, to tell truth, in his
mouth, as the old man turned scowling.
But something in the young one's face, perhaps a look of his dead
father, perhaps its own inherent goodness, made the Thakoor, instead of
ignoring the remark, say curtly--
'I see it not. What friends does India need?'
Then Chris pulled himself together for speech, and the old man
listened, first contemptuously, then with tolerance.
'Thou speakest well,' he said, nodding approval. 'And as thou sayest,
the people need leaders, not _baboos_. Come to my house some day,
and----'
'Have you my shawl, Chris?' said a woman's voice, interrupting the
invitation. 'Oh, I don't want it now, not till the fireworks, but you
can bring it then, to the supper-room.' So, satisfied at having shown
her husband that if _he_ were talking to pearls and brocade, _she_ had
annexed a uniform and medals; satisfied also at having shown both the
uniform and the brocade in what good company they were, Mrs. Chris
Davenant passed on, all white arms and back, edged perfunctorily with
flames and rubies.
'Who--who is that _mem_?' asked the old Rajpoot swiftly, for one of the
white arms had, incredible to say, nudged Chris's black one, to attract
his attention.
Chris gave back the stare defiantly. 'That is my wife,
Thakoor-_sahib_.'
The old chieftain stood bewildered for a moment; then he gave a
scornful laugh.
'Men of thy sort are no friends to India, _baboo-jee_,' he said. So,
with a twirl of the straight grey moustache, he strode away, leaving
Chris more lonely than ever.
So absolutely alone, that the sheer physical pain of his loneliness
drove him on towards the sound of laughter and voices, the popping of
champagne corks, which came from the marble-screened verandah where the
refreshment-tables stood.
It was full of English people only, since this part of the
entertainment was left by the hosts in alien hands; but through the
marble lace-work filling up the arches, the softly radiant lines of
light, climbing upwards to the stars could be seen, and the hum of the
multitude waiting beyond the garden to see the fireworks was audible.
'Have you all you want, Miss Drummond?' said Jack Raymond as he passed.
He looked well, she thought, and wore his garland with a difference.
Jerry had hold of it in a second, detaining him--
'Oh! I say! please, what a whopper!' he exclaimed. 'Why did they give
it you?'
'For doing my duty, of course,' he laughed. 'I say, young man, you
upset the apple-cart, didn't you?'
Lesley looked her regret. 'It was awful! And so much worse not to
explain. It was so rude. I don't wonder the people dislike us.'
Jack Raymond's face took a curiously obstinate look. 'Perhaps you would
like to explain--there is the Thakoor of Dhurmkote; he is more like an
Englishman in his mind than any native I know. Shall I introduce him,
and let you get it off your conscience?'
A minute after the little group--Jack Raymond explaining, the old
Rajpoot listening, Lesley waiting for the laugh to come, and Jerry
watching puzzled, doubtful how far the joke would be against him--gave
Grace Arbuthnot, in her solitude of honour, a pang of envy. It was
dull always talking to the proper people! And Jack Raymond need not
keep aloof from her so pointedly. It was so foolish. As if it were
possible----
In a sort of denial, she just touched the gold lappets of Sir George's
coat--the faintest, lightest finger-touch--as he stood talking to the
general; but he turned at once.
'Do you want anything, dear?'
She flushed, and laughed; a pretty flush, a pretty laugh, chiefly at
her own impulsiveness.
'Nothing, dear, absolutely nothing,' she said, and he smiled back at
her. None the less, she still watched the group enviously.
But Lesley, for her part, was beginning to wish she had not joined it;
for the discovery of her own mistakes was never a pleasant process to
the young lady, and something in the old Thakoor's face warned her she
was out of her depth.
'_Ap ne suchh furmaya. Ap ne be shakk suchh furmaya_,' came the
courteous old voice, as Jack Raymond's ceased, and the courteous old
face bent in grave approval over the child's.
'Please! what does he say?' asked Jerry, sober as a judge.
Jack Raymond had not a smile either, though he looked hard at Lesley.
'He says, translated literally, that "You caused the truth to be told;
without doubt you caused it to be told."'
Jerry heaved a huge sigh of relief, and looked up into the old face,
his childish one full of confidence.
'In course I did. I knew it was the Star of India, 'cos mum told me.
An' I don't know why the grown-ups laughed; but he didn't--he's a nice
old man, an' I like him.'
So, to the old chieftain's inexpressible delight, he tucked his hand
into the Rajpoot's, and said, 'Thank you, sir!'
'You and I are out of it, Miss Drummond,' remarked Jack Raymond, as,
after permission asked and granted, the Thakoor went off, proud as
Punch, to show the _chota sahib_, who had only spoken the truth, to the
rest of the committee.
That 'you and I' lingered somehow pleasantly in the girl's memory, so
that when she returned to Lady Arbuthnot's side, and the latter
(somewhat to her own surprise) felt impelled to make some remark on the
conversation she had noticed, Lesley replied carelessly--
'Yes! I think I like him better than I did; he isn't half bad.'
Grace Arbuthnot felt suddenly as if she could have boxed the speaker's
ears. Not half bad! And, except in position, and one or two things
which did not, could not, show in mere acquaintance, Jack Raymond had
changed very little since the days when he had been her ideal of all a
man should be. What was more, that ideal of hers had not changed at
all! Yet here was this girl thinking him not half bad!
The advent of the general's wife, however, full--as usual--of fears
about everything, created a diversion. Was not Lady Arbuthnot afraid of
catching cold in going out to watch fireworks? To be sure, she was
wearing a high dress, which was perhaps more suitable. But, anyhow, was
she not afraid of getting it spoilt with the oil and the dirt? And if
she was not, did not the underlying doubt as to the general safety of
the position disturb her? Supposing it was only a plot to get the whole
European community together, unarmed, and blow them up? After the
mutiny anything was possible.
'My husband shall take you in charge,' interrupted Grace, 'and as he
has to be escorted everywhere by the biggest swells, you, will be quite
safe, for they would hardly blow themselves up!'
She spoke politely enough, but as she passed out to the terrace, she
said aside to Lesley, 'What a fool that woman is! yet she is not much
worse than half the others. If anything could make us lose our hold on
India, it will be the women--as it was in the mutiny.'
Jerry, who had come back, was holding his mother's hand, and looked up
all eyes and ears.
'Do you think there will be one weally?' he asked, with quite a tremble
of eagerness in his voice.
'No, Jerry, certainly not,' she replied quickly, vexed he should have
heard; 'and if there were, there is no use in being frightened.'
His face flushed crimson. 'It--it isn't _that_,' he began, gripping her
hand tighter, then paused; perhaps because at that moment a line of
coloured fires swept in curves against the background of purple shadow
to form the legend--'God bless our new Lieutenant-Governor.'
A hum of applause, not for the words, but the Roman candles and sulphur
stars, rose from beyond the garden.
On the terrace, too, admiration was loud and the old Thakoor's delight
was boundless. He was here, whispering Sir George that he had only been
allowed two thousand rupees; there, apologising to the rest of the
committee for imaginary shortcomings, or down in the smoke and noise
below, urging the pyrotechnists to be quick, to spare no pains, to show
the _Huzoors_ what they could do.
'That will we!' muttered an underling as he stooped to his task; the
letting off, like minute-guns, of the detonating maroons which the
native loves.
And another man, as he bent to touch a fuse with his port-fire, gave a
sinister laugh, and remarked under his breath that scarred necks could
do without pearls!
So, in hot haste, the set pieces succeeded each other--the
Catherine-wheels span, dropping coloured tears; the fire-fountains
played; the great clouds of smoke, edged with many tinted reflections
of the lights, drifted sideways, and beyond them the balloons sailed up
one by one to form new constellations in the sky; but the curved
rockets paused with a little sob of despair, and sank back, dropping
the stars which they had hoped to set in high heaven.
And above the noise, the bustle, the popping of squibs and crackers,
came the sound of an English military band and the minute-guns of the
maroons.
Lesley Drummond on the lower terrace watching, listening, was conscious
of a curiously new sense of enjoyment, almost exultation. Her life, the
emotionally restricted life of the modern girl who, having freed
herself from minor interests, has not yet found wider ones, had been,
though she would never have admitted it, cold and grey. But to-night,
for the first time, she realised that her nature held other
possibilities. The dim darkness, the faint light, the mystery
encompassing the mirth around her, even Jack Raymond's voice asking
carelessly, as he passed, how she was getting on, made her feel dizzy
with pleasure.
'We are having a splendid time,' she answered joyously. 'Aren't we,
Jerry?'
But Jerry answered nothing. He was much too absorbed; his wide grey
eyes were wider than ever, staring out at the fireworks.
'What is it, Jerry?' she asked curiously. 'What do you see?'
'Oh! nuffing yet,' answered the little lad; 'but if it was to come----'
As he spoke a sudden scream rose from a group of ladies close by. A
man, running as for dear life to set and light a fresh row of
fire-fountains, squibs, and crackers, had stumbled, tripped, fallen
against the low parapet, and in his attempt to save himself had dropped
some of the fireworks over on to the terrace. Nor was that all; the
flaming, spouting gerb he carried in his left hand as a port fire, had
swung round on them, and there they were in the middle of gauze and
muslin--alight!
A knot of squibs was the first to explode, darting hither and thither
wickedly, like snakes, amid the frills and flounces, amid the screams!
'Keep back! Keep back!' shouted the men; and some had their coats off
in a second, while others held the ladies' filmy dresses back, beating
the sparks off with their hands, or stamping them out with their feet.
But there was a round black something, with just a tiny glow sizzling
slowly into it, which no one noticed as it lay alf hidden under a
velvet gown; no one but Jerry----
The next instant he was standing with it in his hands, confused for the
moment by the dense circle round him through which he saw no way for a
small boy.
'Drop it, drop it!' shouted some one, and Lesley was beside him trying
to snatch the detonator from him. But he dodged from her with an
appealing cry.
'It's mine. It weally is my shell--it weally is!'
He dodged Nevill Lloyd also, who dashed at him yelling--'Drop it, you
young fool'; and he might have gone on dodging others till that tiny
glow sizzled in to the powder, if some one else, realising the
situation and the few seconds' grace that remained, had not shouted--
'Hold tight, Jerry! Hold tight!'--and so, with that reassuring request
had run to the child, caught him in his arms, and forced a way through
the crowd to the parapet.
'Now, my lad, heave!' came the order.
And Jerry, who had held tight, heaved, since these were reasonable
orders. Heaved not an instant too soon, however, for the round black
thing was still so close when it changed to a flash, a flame, a roar,
that it left Jack Raymond and the child wholly dazed and half blind,
all singed and powder-grimed.
They were still standing so, bewildered, the man's face and the child's
close together disguised by their very griminess into quaint likeness,
when Grace Arbuthnot came up to them.
'He isn't hurt,' said Jack Raymond, quickly setting down the child,
partly to prove his words, partly because he wished to dissociate
himself from the situation as far as possible. The action, however,
brought him closer to her eyes, and something in them, something in the
faint perfume of heliotrope about her dress, the perfume he remembered
so well, made him feel ashamed of his own thought.
'He is really not hurt,' he continued in a low voice for her ear alone.
'And he behaved--as I should have expected your son to behave.'
He had not meant to say so much, but something of the old confidence
seemed to have returned to him with the old memory; and to her also,
for she shook her head and said, almost with a smile--
'He is not a bit like me--he is far more like you.' She paused,
startled at her own unconsidered words, and looked at him with a sudden
shrinking in her face.
'Very,' he replied, catching up the boy again. 'We are both black
sheep. Come along, my hero, and scrub some of the likeness off.'
But, as he carried Jerry away on his shoulder to the dressing-room, he
told himself that she was right. The boy _was_ like him. Now that it
had been suggested to him, he saw it clearly. Not in face, but in the
nameless ways which show a likeness in the inward stuff that has gone,
possibly, to make up a very dissimilar outside.
The explanation was simple, of course. It was a case of reversion. He
himself had always been counted a typical Raymond, and Jerry, through
his mother, had harked back to that distant, almost-forgotten ancestor.
Something had made the current set that way once more; that was all.
But what something? Was it possible that the mind had this power as
well as the body?
He swung the child to the attendant grimly, and bade him wash the
_chola sahib's_ face, and be sure to take off all the black.
That likeness, at any rate, need not remain. The other left him
curiously helpless, curiously ashamed.