Sec. 5. MR. HORACE FAGGIT.
"Fair cautions, ain't they, these bloomin' niggers," observed Mr. HoraceFaggit, as the train rested and refreshed itself at a wayside station onits weary way to distant Gungapur.
Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley, of the 99th Baluch Light Infantry,apparently did not feel called upon to notice the remark of Horace, whomhe regarded as a Person.
"Makes you proud to think you are one of the Ruling Rice to look at thesilly blighters, don't it?" he persisted.
"No authority on rice," murmured the Colonel, without looking up fromhis book.
Stuffy old beggar he seemed to the friendly and genial Horace, butHorace was too deeply interested in India and Horace to be affected bytrifles.
For Mr. Horace Faggit had only set foot in his Imperial Majesty the KingEmperor's Indian Empire that month, and he was dazed with impressions,drunk with sensations, and uplifted with pride. Was he not one of theConquerors, a member of the Superior Society, one of the Ruling Race,and, in short, a Somebody?
The train started again and Horace sank back upon the long couch of theunwonted first-class carriage, and sighed with contentment andsatisfaction.
How different from Peckham and from the offices of the fine old BritishFirm of Schneider, Schnitzel, Schnorrer & Schmidt! A Somebody atlast--after being office-boy, clerk, strap-hanger, gallery-patron,cheap lodger, and paper-collar wearer. A Somebody, a Sahib, an Englishgent., one of the Ruling and Upper Class after being a fourpennyluncher, a penny-'bus-and-twopenny--tuber, a waverer 'twixt Lockhart andPearce-and-Plenty.
For him, now, the respectful salaam, precedence, the first-classcarriage, the salutes of police and railway officials, hotels, a servant(elderly and called a "Boy"), cabs (more elderly and called "gharries"),first-class refreshment and waiting rooms, a funny but imposingsun-helmet, silk and cotton suits, evening clothes, deference, regardand prompt attention everywhere. Better than Peckham and the City, this!My! What tales he'd have to tell Gwladwys Gwendoline when he hadcompleted his circuit and returned.
For Mr. Horace Faggit, plausible, observant, indefatigably cunning, andin business most capable ("No bloomin' flies on 'Orris F." as he wouldconfidently and truthfully assure you) was the first tentative tentacleadvanced to feel its way by the fine old British Firm of Schneider,Schnitzel, Schnorrer & Schmidt, in the mazy markets of the gorgeousOrient, and to introduce to the immemorial East their famous jewelleryand wine of Birmingham and Whitechapel respectively; also to introducecertain exceeding-private documents to various gentlemen of Teutonicsympathies and activities in various parts of India--documents of thenature of which Horace was entirely ignorant.
And the narrow bosom of Horace swelled with pride, as he realized that,here at least, he was a Gentleman and a Sahib.
Well, he'd let 'em know it too. Those who did him well and pleased himshould get tips, and those who didn't should learn what it was to earnthe displeasure of the Sahib and to evoke his wrath. And he wouldendeavour to let all and sundry see the immeasurable distance andimpassable gulf that lay between a Sahib and a nigger--of any degreewhatsoever.
This was the country to play the gentleman in and no error! You _could_fling your copper cash about in a land where a one-and-fourpenny piecewas worth a hundred and ninety-two copper coins, where you could get ahundred good smokes to stick in your face for about a couple of bob, andwhere you could give a black cabby sixpence and done with it. Horace hadbeen something of a Radical at home (and, indeed, when an office-boy, aconvinced Socialist), especially when an old-age pension took his lazy,drunken old father off his hands, and handsomely rewarded the agedgentleman for an unswervingly regular and unbroken career ofpost-polishing and pub-pillaring. But now he felt he had been mistaken.Travel widens the horizon and class-hatred is only sensible andsatisfactory when you are no class yourself. When you have got aposition you must keep it up--and being one of the Ruling Race was aposition undoubtedly. Horace Faggit _would_ keep it up too, and let 'emsee all about it.
The train entered another station and drew in from the heat and glare tothe heat and comparative darkness.
Yes, he would keep up his position as a Sahib haughtily and withjealousy,--and he stared with terrible frown and supercilious hauteur atwhat he mentally termed a big, fat buck-nigger who dared and presumedto approach the carriage and look in. The man wore an enormous whiteturban, a khaki Norfolk jacket, white jodhpore riding-breeches thatfitted the calf like skin, and red shoes with turned-up pointed toes.His beard was curled, and his hair hung in ringlets from his turban tohis shoulders in a way Horace considered absurd. Could the blighter beactually looking to see whether there might be room for him, andmeditating entry? If so Horace would show him his mistake. Pretty thingif niggers were to get into First-Class carriages with Sahibs likeHorace!
"'Ere! What's the gaime?" he inquired roughly. "Can't yer see this isFirs-Class, and if you got a Firs-Class ticket, can't yer see there'stwo Sahibs 'ere? Sling yer 'ook, _sour_.[59] Go on, _jao!_"[60]
[59] Pig. [60] Go away.
The man gave no evidence of having understood Horace.
"Sahib!" said he softly, addressing Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley.
The Colonel went on reading.
"_Jao_, I tell yer," repeated Horace, rather proud of his grasp of thevernacular. "Slope, _barnshoot_."[61]
[61] An insulting epithet.
"Sahib!" said the man again.
The Colonel looked up and then sprang to his feet with outstretchedhand.
"_Bahut salaam_,[62] Subedar Major Saheb," he cried, and wrung the handof the "big fat buck-nigger" (who possessed the same medal-ribbons thathe himself did) as he poured forth a torrent of mingled Pushtu, Urdu,and English while the Native Officer alternately saluted and pressedthe Colonel's hand to his forehead in transports of pure and whollydisinterested joy.
[62] Hearty greeting.
"They told me the Colonel Sahib would be passing through this week," hesaid, "and I have met all the trains that I might look upon his face. Iam weary of my furlough and would rejoin but for my law-suit. Praise beto Allah that I have met my Colonel Sahib," and the man who had five wardecorations was utterly unashamed of the tear that trickled.
"How does my son, Sahib?" he asked in Urdu.
"Well, Subedar Major Saheb, well. Worthily of his father--whose place inthe _pultan_ may he come to occupy."
"Praise be to God, Sahib! Let him no more seek his father's house norlook upon his father's face again, if he please thee not in all things.And is there good news of Malet-Marsac Sahib, O Colonel Sahib?" Then,with a glance at Horace, he asked: "Why does this low-born one dare toenter the carriage of the Colonel Sahib and sit? Truly the _relweyterain_ is a great caste-breaker! Clearly he belongs to the class of the_ghora-log_, the common soldiers." ...
"'Oo was that,--a Rajah?" inquired the astounded Horace, as the trainmoved on.
"One of the people who keep India safe for you bagmen," replied theColonel, who was a trifle indignant on behalf of the insulted SubedarMajor Mir Daoud Khan Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan of the 99th Baluch LightInfantry.
"No doubt he thought I was another officer," reflected Horace. "Theythink you're a gent, if you chivvy 'em."
At Umbalpur Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley left the train and Mr.Faggit had the carriage to himself--for a time.
And it was only through his own firmness and proper pride that he had itto himself for so long, for at the very next station a beastly littlebrute of a black man actually tried to get in--in with _him_, Mr. HoraceFaggit of the fine old British Firm of Schneider, Schnitzel, Schnorrer &Schmidt, manufacturers of best quality Birmingham jewellery and"importers" of a fine Whitechapel wine.
But Horace settled _him_ all right and taught him to respect Sahibs. Ithappened thus. Horace lay idly gazing at the ever-shifting scene of theplatform in lordly detachment and splendid isolation, when, just as thetrain was starting, a little fat man, dressed in a little red turbanlike a cotton bowler, a white coat with a white sash over the shoulder
,a white apron tucked up behind, pink silk socks, and patent leathershoes, told his servant to open the door. Ere the stupefied Horace couldarise from his seat the man was climbing in! The door opened inwardshowever, and Horace was in time to give it a sharp thrust with his footand send the little man, a mere Judge of the High Court, staggeringbackwards on to the platform where he sprawled at full length, while histurban, which Horace thought most ridiculous for a grown man, rolled inthe dust. Slamming the door the "Sahib" leant out and jeered, while theinsolent presumptuous "nigger" wiped the blood from his nose with acorner of the _dhoti_ or apron-like garment (which Horace consideredidiotic if not improper)....
But Homer nodded, and--Horace went to sleep.
When he awoke he saw by the dim light of the screened roof-lamp that hewas not alone, and that on the opposite couch a _native_ had actuallymade up a bed with sheets, blankets and pillow, undressed himself, puton pyjamas and gone to bed! Gord streuth, he had! He'd attend to him inthe morning--though it would serve the brute right if Horace threw himout at the next station--without his kit. But he looked rather large,and Mercy is notoriously a kingly attribute.
In the morning Mir Jan Rah-bin-Ras el-Isan Mir Ilderim Dost Mahommed ofMekran Kot, Gungapur, and the world in general, awoke, yawned, stretchedhimself and arose.
He arose to some six feet and three inches of stature, and his thinpyjamasuit was seen to cover a remarkably fine and robustiousfigure--provided with large contours where contours are desirable, andlevel tracts where such are good. As he lay flat back again, Horacenoted that his chest rose higher than his head and the more southerlyportion of his anatomy, while the action of clasping his hands behindhis neck brought into prominence a pair of biceps that strained theirsleeves almost to bursting. He was nearly as fair as London-bred Horace,but there were his turbanned conical hat, his curly toed shoes, his longsilk coat, his embroidered velvet waistcoat and other wholly Orientalarticles of attire. Besides, his vest was of patterned muslin and he hadsomething on a coloured string round his neck.
"What are you doing 'ere?" demanded Horace truculently, as this boldabandoned "native" caught his eye and said "Good-morning".
"At present I am doing nothing," was the reply, "unless passivereclining may count as being something. I trust I do not intrude orannoy?"
"You do intrude and likewise you do annoy also. I ain't accustomed totravel with blacks, and I ain't agoing to have you spitting about 'ere.You got in when I was asleep."
"You were certainly snoring when I got in, and I was careful not toawaken you--but not on account of any great sensation of guilt or fear.I assure you I have no intention of spitting or being in any way rude,unmannerly, or offensive. And since you object to travelling with'blacks' I suggest--that you leave the carriage."
Did Horace's ears deceive him? Did he sleep, did he dream, and werevisions about? _Leave the carriage_?
"Look 'ere," he shouted, "you keep a civil tongue in your 'ead. Don'tyou know I am a gentleman? What do you mean by getting into afirst-class carriage with a gentleman and insulting 'im? Want me tothrow you out before we reach a station? Do yer?"
"No, to tell you the truth I did not realize that you are agentleman--and I have known a great number of English gentlemen inEngland and India, and generally found them mirrors of chivalry and thepink of politeness and courtesy. And I hope you won't try to throw meout either in a station or elsewhere for I might get annoyed and hurtyou."
What a funny nigger it was! What did he mean by "mirrors of chivalry".Talked like a bloomin' book. Still, Horace would learn him not topresoom.
The presumptuous one retired to the lavatory; washed, shaved, andreappeared dressed in full Pathan kit. But for this, there was nothingsave his very fine physique and stature to distinguish him from aninhabitant of Southern Europe.
Producing a red-covered official work on Mounted Infantry Training, hesettled down to read.
Horace regretted that India provided not his favourite _Comic Cuts andPhoto Bits_.
"May I offer you a cigarette and light one myself?" said the "black" manin his quiet cultured voice.
"I don't want yer fags--and I don't want you smoking while I got a emptystummick," replied the Englishman.
Anon the train strolled into an accidental-looking station with an airof one who says, "Let's sit down for a bit--what?" and Horace sprang tothe window and bawled for the guard.
"'Ere--ask this native for 'is ticket," he said, on the arrival of thatfunctionary. "Wot's 'e doing in 'ere with _me_?"
"Ticket, please?" said the guard--a very black Goanese.
The Pathan produced his ticket.
"Will you kindly see if there is another empty first-class carriage,Guard?" said he.
"There iss one next a'door," replied the guard.
"Then you can escape from your unpleasant predicament by going in there,Sir," said the Pathan.
"I shall remine where I ham," was the dignified answer.
"And so shall I," said the Pathan.
"Out yer go," said the bagman, rising threateningly.
"I am afraid I shall have to put you to the trouble of ejecting me,"said the Pathan, with a smile.
"I wouldn't bemean myself," countered Horace loftily, and didn't.
"One often hears of the dangerous classes in India," said the Pathan, asthe train moved on again. "You belong to the most dangerous of all. Youand your kind are a danger to the Empire and I have a good mind to be apublic benefactor and destroy you. Put you to the edge of the sword--orrather of the tin-opener," and he pulled his lunch-basket from under theseat.
"Have some chicken, little Worm?" he continued, opening the basket andpreparing to eat.
"Keep your muck," replied Horace.
"No, no, little Cad," corrected the strange and rather terrible person;"you are going to breakfast with me and you are going to learn a fewthings about India--and yourself."
And Horace did....
"Where are you going?" asked the Pathan person later.
"I'm going to work up a bit o' trade in a place called Gungerpore," wasthe reply of the cowed Horace.
But in Gungapur Horace adopted the very last trade that he, respectableman, ever expected to adopt--that of War.
CHAPTER IV.
"MEET AND LEAVE AGAIN."
"So on the sea of life, Alas! Man nears man, meets and leaves again."
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