A STRANGER IN THE LAND
"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo
about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?"
An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together
they--or rather their horses--toiled up a sharp ascent.
"Oh yes, _I_ heard him," grunted the other with a shrug.
"And what did you think, Ted?"
"That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising
rejoinder. "Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out!"
"Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in
his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the
estates were chock full of gold."
"Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it,"
declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade.
"Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops--the
berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I've heard that lame
Maistrey--whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened
up--say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere
song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains--run
right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered
in jungle."
"Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I've heard these fool stories, but there's
nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling
subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of
ammonia.
The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up the
steep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated on
the western slopes of a hill range, in Southern India. Edward Dawson,
the elder of the pair, was a big, loosely put-together man, of five and
thirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardless
face), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clothes
were decent--which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt,
wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a battered
topee, completed his kit.
Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely invested
part of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had thereby
provided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes--a good, honest
fellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spoke
Tamil and Canarese, with effective fluency.
Nicholas Byng, his companion, cousin, and partner, was a slight,
young man, with neat features, quick, bright eyes, and a remarkably
clear idea of the importance of appearances--especially of his own
appearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode a
long-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouraging
name of "Mad Molly."
Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for the
Army, but was "spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared to
have become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end to
further efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him to
the Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career,
he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year's
apprenticeship, became partner and sub-manager. He liked the life.
Teddy, for all his unconventional, "jungly" ways, was a good sort;
a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was
master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays--oh, it was
not _all_ "coffee"--and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras,
and fashionable--alas! rather remote--hill stations; he got a bit of
shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet suited him
down to the ground.
The couple had been to the foot of the ghât on business connected with
the transport of their crops; every yard they now travelled carried
them further and further from dense, tropical forests, sweltering
heat, and swampy valleys, and nearer to the quiet beauty of the grassy
uplands.
Turning a sharp corner, they debouched into a little glade where three
tracks met, and here, with a slight shock of surprise, discovered that
prominent figure in early Victorian fiction, known as "a solitary
horseman."
Dawson, who was still expounding on the scandalous price of bone
manure, broke off his sentence with:
"I say,--who's this?"
"Hello, good afternoon," said the stranger, raising a smart topee, "I
heard your voices, and waited. I don't know these parts, and I'm afraid
I've lost my bearings."
The "lost one" was a well set-up, self-possessed individual, mounted on
a fine waler cob, and accompanied by a wiry, and more than half-naked
syce.
"I expect we will soon put you all right," said Byng,--ever the
speaking partner--"Where are you bound for?"
"A place called Fairplains; the estate of one James Fletcher."
"Then you are just five miles out; you overshot the mark by that native
village among the plantain trees, near the bridge. Why didn't you stick
to the road?"
"Well, I suppose because I'm an adventurous idiot," was the modest
reply, "and I was told that a bridle-path cut off seven miles."
"So it does,--but it depends upon _which_ bridle-path. This one has put
you on, a good ten."
"I say, what a confounded nuisance!" exclaimed the wanderer, looking
down at his blown, and sweating, steed.
"Our place is barely a mile from here," announced Dawson, speaking
for the first time. "Come on with us, have a drink, give the gee a
feed, and a rub-down, and we will send a coolie to put you on the way
to Fairplains--unless you'll stay the night?" he added, with true
planter's hospitality.
"Thanks awfully, but I'd better shove on. I'll be glad to stop an hour
at your diggings, and give the cob a rest--he's pretty well done."
"Not the usual 'Hirling,' I see," remarked Byng.
"No, I brought him from Cananore; he is awfully soft--that climate is
only fit for horned cattle!"
"Yes, beastly wet," agreed Byng, his bright eyes taking in the
well-knit figure and military bearing of the cob's master. "Your
regiment quartered there?"
"It is--my name is Mayne--Derek Mayne--an uncle of mine is a pal of
Fletcher's, he invited me up for six weeks' shooting--and naturally I
came like a shot!"
"But Fletcher has gone home--went off ten days ago!"
"What do you say?" cried Mayne, reining up his horse.
"It's a fact; he has been rather seedy, and ran down to see a doctor in
Madras, who ordered him to start then and there for London--it was a
case for an immediate operation."
"Poor chap! I'm most awfully sorry. Well," after a reflective pause,
"I'm in a pretty big hole. I had a line from Fletcher three weeks
ago, and I've got my leave all right, and have written to announce my
arrival, but the shoot is off! I suppose I must make for one of these
hill stations. I can't tell you how I've been looking forward to this
shikar trip--my first."
"Oh, I expect you will be all right," said Dawson reassuringly;
"Fletcher is bound to have left instructions; he is a most reliable old
boy. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dawson, and this," waving a
huge paw, "is my cousin, Nicholas Byng. We run a coffee estate known as
Chicknabullnay,--but called by our neighbours 'The Corner.' He is the
ornamental, and I'm the working partner."
"Come, I like that!" broke in his cousin: "I live with my nose to the
grindstone. I've been on duty since six o'clock this morning; down at
Burliar, making a bundobast for our crop."
"We would give you some shooting," continued Dawson, "but nothing like
what you'd get at Fairplains--that has always had a Shikari owner, who
knows the best grounds, and beats in the low country, as well as he
knows his A B C, and can call out any amount of good, plucky beaters."
"Well, I sincerely hope it _will_ be all right, as you believe, and
that the manager has been warned by Fletcher; otherwise, it's no great
matter, as I am a complete stranger to them both. I say, what a mixed
multitude!" pointing to the pack.
"Yes, all sorts and conditions," replied Byng, "and a real good
specimen of an average planter's pack, only ours are absolutely
healthy--no red mange."
"But what variety!" said Mayne, turning in his saddle to survey them.
"A fox hound, three beagles, a deer-hound, half a dozen fox terriers,
several--any other sort--a bull terrier, and what was once a poodle."
"Yes, and the poodle has the brains of the lot. You see how it is;
people going home are glad to leave their dogs in a good climate. Most
of ours, have a history! The deer-hound was given to me by a girl, the
poodle came from a French priest at Pondicherry, the fox-terrier with
the black head, belonged to a poor chap who died. They get on together
fairly well, all being fond of sport, and they have a rattling good
time."
"Lucky dogs!"
"Yes," put in Dawson, "hunting, drawing sholahs for sambur, and pig,
and at home, there are rats and bandicoots. Two dog-boys feed and brush
them--and a few live indoors."
"A _few_!" echoed Byng, "make it a dozen! The poodle and
fox-terriers,--like the poor,--are always with us, and I've found a
couple of beagles in my bed before now, and"--as an old retriever came
slowly towards the party, "here comes a pensioner to welcome us. This
is Chicknabullnay."
For the last quarter of a mile, the journey had been on a well-metalled
cart road, and through a crop of dense green coffee bushes; now, a
sudden curve brought the back of a long, low bungalow with adjoining
gardens, stores, and stables, into sight. As the trio rode down a steep
slope, dog-boys, and syces, hurried forward to claim their respective
charges.
The guest dismounted rather stiffly, and was escorted by Dawson
straight through the house, and into the front verandah. Here the view
that lay before them was startlingly unexpected; low hills to right
and left had, as it were, been cleft by some volcanic convulsion, and
disclosed a far-away, and exquisite, blue panorama of the plains.
"Oh I say!" Mayne exclaimed involuntarily.
"Hits you bang in the eye, doesn't it?" was Dawson's complacent
rejoinder. "Most planters manœuvre for a fine outlook--the one up at
Fairplains is the same--but Fletcher swears, ten times better. Now come
along inside, and have a wash."