LATE FOR MESS
THE bungalow occupied by Captain Gascoigne and his friend was one
of the largest in Ramghur. Sixty years previously, it had been the
residence of the general commanding the district, and now it was let
to a couple of bachelors, at the miserable rental of thirty rupees a
month, for it happened to be deplorably out of repair, inconveniently
out of the way, and enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. This
unfortunate habitation stood in a spacious compound, whose limits were
absorbed in the surrounding terra-cotta coloured plain, covered with
yawning fissures, and tufts of bleached grass. A few mango trees, guava
trees, and a dry well, indicated the remains of a once celebrated
garden, whilst under the tamarinds were three or four weather-worn
tombs, the resting-place of Mahomedan warriors, who had been buried on
the battlefield long before the days of the English Raj.
An imposing range of servants' quarters (at present crowded, as the
retinue harboured all their relations, as well as lodgers) and a long
line of stables testified to the former importance of this tumble-down
abode, whose big reception-rooms, once the heart of social life, were
now filled with boxes, empty packing-cases, saddlery, and polo sticks,
and were the resort of white ants, roof cats, and scorpions.
The present tenants had naturally selected the most weather-tight
quarters, and these were in opposite ends of the venerable residence.
As Gascoigne came whirling through the entrance gate, he was waylaid by
three dogs, a fox-terrier, an Irish terrier, and a nondescript hound,
and it was immediately evident that he belonged to them, from their
yelps of hearty welcome, and the manner in which all three scuttled up
the drive in the wake of Sally Lunn.
As the cart stopped, and the syce sprang down, Shafto appeared in the
verandah. He wore the usual hot-weather mess dress, spotless white
linen, and a coloured silk cummerband, and looked strikingly handsome
as he stood bare-headed in the moonlight, gravely contemplating his
comrade.
"Upon my soul, Phil, I began to think the brute had smashed you up
at last! I've been sitting here listening hard for twenty minutes,
precisely as if I were your anxious grandmother. I know Sally's trot
half a mile away. What kept you?"
"Down dogs, down," cried their master, as he descended. "I had no
notion it was so late, and for a drive, this is the best time of the
whole day."
"Whole night you mean," corrected Shafto; "it's half-past eight—where
have you been? Sally looks as if she had had enough for once."
"She's had about twenty-two miles," admitted her owner, now taking off
his cap and subsiding into one of the two long chairs which furnished
the verandah. "The Lucknow road is like a billiard table, and we made
our own wind."
"_We?_" ejaculated his listener.
"Yes, I took that child Angel from next door; it was a rare treat for
the poor little beggar, and she coaxed me to go on mile after mile."
"Oh, did she! Well, as long as she is only the angel next door I don't
mind," said Shafto, tossing away the stump of a cigarette; "an angel in
the house, I bar. This establishment is already the home of rest for
lost dogs"—pointing to the trio—"ill-used ekka ponies, and a lame
bullock. Don't, for God's sake, bring in a child."
"You need not alarm yourself," said his friend composedly. "I should
not know what to do with her. The animals, at least, are grown up."
"And so is Angel—as old-fashioned as they make 'em. By the way, I
forgot to ask you what she wanted yesterday?"
"Nothing," replied Gascoigne, stretching out his arms. "I say—Sally
can pull—only to tell me that she was rather down on her luck."
"Not much luck to be down on, eh?" sneered his listener. "What with
a smart mamma, a saving step-papa, and a squad of greedy little
Wilkinsons, she must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her
father's people don't do something."
"Here you are," cried Gascoigne. "I am her father's cousin."
"Well, I won't permit you to interfere, or take her in; by Jove, no,"
said Shafto, springing to his feet. "Charity does not begin at this
home. They say that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is
a cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat."
"Poor mite! Can't 'they' let even a child alone? They must be short of
subjects."
"You allude to the station gossips, and no doubt times are bad—so
many of their 'cases' are in the hills. Personally, I don't care for
little girls with wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate."
"I know you don't," assented the other promptly. "_You_ prefer
well-grown young women with seductive black orbs and a craving for
sympathy."
"Bosh! There's the mess bugle. You take half-an-hour to tub and change;
you'll be late for dinner."
"Oh, I'll get something when I go over."
"Here," said Shafto, motioning to a syce to bring up his pony. Then,
turning to his comrade, "You are a rum customer. Harder than nails, yet
soft as putty in some ways."
"Oh, not as soft as Billy Shafto," he protested with a laugh.
"Yes. If a fellow is in a scrape—Gascoigne. Duty to do—Gascoigne.
For the sick and afflicted—Gascoigne. Dinnerless to humour a
child—Gascoigne." Whilst he spoke he put his foot in the stirrup and
mounted, and as he wheeled about he gave a view hulloa, shouted "Vive
Gascoigne!" and galloped down the avenue _ventre à terre_. For a moment
Gascoigne and the dogs sat staring at the cloud of dust the pony's
hoofs had raised behind him, and then the three animals gathered round
to have a word or two with their master.
Each of these waifs had a history of his own. Train, the fox-terrier,
was found in the railway station, a lost, distracted dog, evidently
a stranger in a strange land, for he did not understand a word of
Hindustani, and he shrank appalled from the blandishments of the
Telegraph Baboo. He was middle-aged, English, and a gentleman. What was
his past? Gunner, an Irish terrier, possibly country-born, had been
left behind by a battery of artillery, suddenly ordered up country, and
for weeks he had haunted their lines, heart-broken and starving; even
now he constantly called at his old quarters, to see if _they_ had come
back?
Toko was a stray, brought in, in an emaciated condition, by the two
others, and was believed to have been the property of a man who had
died of cholera the previous rains. These three casuals were now beyond
the reach of want, and were well looked after. They employed a dog
boy, whose duty it was to wash, feed, and exercise them; but they were
fiercely independent, and objected to going out for a walk at the end
of a chain, merely to be tied up, whilst their attendant gambolled
behind a wall with various other urchins. When not enjoying a scamper
with their master they took themselves out with great decorum, and
it was a funny sight to meet the three strolling leisurely along,
precisely like their superiors, or cantering across the maidan almost
abreast. Naturally, their friends and foes were identical, and it was a
truly brave dog who dared to raise his bristles at the trio. They had
their various individual tastes, and Train and Toko secretly felt that
it was a pity to see a dog of Gunner's age and size so passionately
addicted to chasing sparrows.
Gascoigne and the trio sat in the moonlight in front of the old
bungalow, silently enjoying one another's society, till a neighbouring
gurra, striking nine, warned Gascoigne that it was time to dress
and dine. All the same he was not in the least hungry, and only
for the susceptibilities of his bearer,—who was an abject slave
to convention, and would have considered his conduct erratic and
peculiar,—he would gladly have remained sitting in the verandah with
his three dumb friends. Gascoigne's drive with Angel had resulted in a
paradox—it had effectively taken away his appetite, and supplied him
with food for reflection. Poor little neglected ne'er-do-well! What was
to be her fate?