CHAPTER VI.
[ANTHONY POZENDINE SPEAKS UP.]
Hark unto me! Myself will weave the plot
Close as the spider's web, with threads as fine.
Old Play.
Anthony Pozendine, the half-caste head clerk of the district office of Pazobin, had evidently something on his mind. He sat at his desk amid a heap of files, over which his head just appeared, and every now and again his squeaky voice rose in petulant complaint or censure of one of his subordinates.
"Here, Mr. Pillay, can't you add, eh? You make out four hundred cases tried last quarter, and seven hundred convictions! Sshoo!" And he flung a file across the room at the unfortunate Mr. Pillay, who stooped and, picking it up humbly, went on with his work.
Through the half-open door of the office the buzz of voices from the court room came in, and occasionally a peon would enter with a request for Pozendine to see either Hawkshawe or Jackson. When it was to see Jackson, Anthony obeyed with a resigned air and a certain amount of pleasure, because he knew he was being sent for to remove some difficulty of routine which the new chief felt, and this would raise him in the eyes of his subordinate clerks, and make them think the power of Pozendine was great in the land. When it was to see Hawkshawe, Anthony's thin legs trembled under him, and he went with an outside assumption of dignity but a great fear in his heart, and when he returned there was generally an explosion of some kind. Hawkshawe had already sent for him four times to-day, and Anthony's temper was in shreds. He had just taken a fair sheet of foolscap, folded it lengthwise, and written in a clerkly hand across the half margin near the top "Memo. for orders," when again the messenger entered with a request from Hawkshawe, that was practically an order, to see him at once. "Damn!" said Anthony so loudly that the ten busy heads in the room bobbed up from among the heaps of papers in which they were buried, and ten scared faces looked at Anthony in alarm. Ten pairs of eyes were fixed upon him with anxious inquiry in their gaze, and the magnetic effect of this made the head clerk cough nervously and very nearly upset the inkstand.
"Are you coming?" said the messenger in an insolent tone, as he stood in an easy attitude before Anthony and inserted a piece of betel between his teeth.
Anthony glared at him. "I'm coming," he said. "Go 'way," and then he turned on his assistants.
"Wot are you all looking at, eh? Wasting time this way and that way. Think gov'ment pays you to sit in your chairs and look about! Here you, Mr. Rozario, you joined office a last-grade clerk two years ago, you're a last-grade clerk now, you'll leave it a last grade, I think. G'long and work--plentee of work--if not, I will reduce establishment."
Ten heads sank back into their papers, and the little man, seizing a file in his hand, walked slowly out with becoming dignity, his heart, however, full of combined fear and anger.
He was absent for fully half an hour, and the clerks once or twice distinctly heard the strident tones of Hawkshawe's voice echoing along the long passage, through the court where Jackson sat, and into the room where they worked.
"Big row on," remarked Mr. Rozario to no one in particular. "Pozendine ketching it warm, warm."
Finally the head clerk reappeared, but he came back with hasty steps and a face in which green predominated over its habitually yellow tinge. There were two blue lines to mark his lips, and his hands shivered over his papers as he stood at his desk in an irresolute sort of way. Finally he could contain himself no longer, and turned to his chief assistant.
"Mr. Iyer," said he, "am I head clerk of the district office or head clerk of the police office, eh? Answer me, eh?"
The stout Madrassee clerk looked at a fellow, who looked at another, and then, as if by one impulse, the whole room arose and crowded around Pozendine.
"Am I," repeated Anthony, "head clerk of the district office or of the police office?"
"You're chief clerk," hazarded Mr. Rozario.
"Yes," assented Anthony, "I am the chief clerk. I have served gov'ment twentee-four years, and now Mr. Hawkshawe he sends for me and tells me before a menial servant that I know nothing. Why, I taught four deputy commissioners their work! Who writes revenue report? Who writes notes on crops? Who makes tabular statements? Who drafts to commissioner and revises administration report? Who attends to district roads? Who sees to cess collections, budget work, record and despatch, stamps and stationery, office routine and discipline, eh? Who? Who? Who? And now Mr. Hawkshawe he sends for me to look over Mr. Drage's report on police. 'Pozendine,' he says, 'you're a damfool'--call me, Anthony Pozendine, head clerk of the district, damfool! 'Sir,' I said, 'that's Mr. Drage's order,' and he say, 'You ought to have been able to tell Mr. Drage what to write.' 'See,' he say, 'now that Mr. Drage has gone on leave nothing can be done about this, and it will give beastly trouble--and now be off with you, infernal idiot!' Damfool and infernal idiot! I will report to commissioner at once by wire through assistant commissioner and resign. Now you go on with your work." He flung himself down into his seat and began to scribble a long complaint to Jackson about the treatment he had received from Hawkshawe. There was much irrelevant matter in it, and his pen fairly hissed along the paper. While he was thus engaged the Madrassee clerk Iyer rose softly and, stealing toward Pozendine, whispered in his ear. It was like one devil tempting another, and Anthony's face was perfectly satanic in its expression of glee as he listened.
"Plenty witness--Ma Mie's sister my wife," murmured Iyer, and his yellow eyes twinkled like two evil stars. Pozendine nodded his head. "Ah, ha! Mr. Hawkshawe, you call me damfool--I will brand you dam' blaggard!" he hissed out aloud as his busy fingers travelled over the paper and Iyer went back to his seat.
The Madrassee watched his superior keenly from his chair, and a wicked smile stole over his features as he half expressed his thoughts. "Pozendine will get sack, and I will become chief clerk." He then placidly put up a memo. for orders on the subject of the wasteful extravagance in blue pencil indulged in by the district engineer.
* * * * *
"I can not stand that beast of a head clerk, Jackson," and Hawkshawe, flinging himself into a chair, pulled out a long brown-leather cheroot case and extracted a gigantic cheroot therefrom.
Peregrine looked up as he said slowly: "Why not? He seems a decent sort of fellow--all nerves, though, I expect, but most men of his class are. But what has he been doing to upset you?"
"Oh, nothing in particular, only I don't like him; can't help it, perhaps, but I hate him like poison. Why don't you get rid of the brute? He's been too long here. Is a sort of power in the place, and owns property. That's the sort of man who gets his palm greased, you know."
"It's a very serious matter to punish a man for a fault you think he's going to commit. Still, as you say, he has too much power; but that can be remedied without resorting to anything like the measures you suggest."
Hawkshawe shrugged his broad shoulders. "As you please; but if the crash comes, don't say I didn't warn you. However, I didn't come to talk to you about this, but to ask you if you think it wise to have so much money at Yeo. There's close on a hundred thousand there, and the engineer on the famine works a native, too."
"What can be done? There is a strong guard, I believe?"
"Yes, twenty men, and old Serferez Ali, my inspector, commands them. He's the best man in the service. Still, I think you had better bring in the money."
"You think there is any danger?"
"Absolutely none that I know of at present; but old Bah Hmoay has been so quiet of late that I'm afraid mischief is brewing, and one never knows what may happen."
"We have, then, two alternatives before us--either to bring in the money or the greater part of it here, and send it out as it is wanted, exposing it to the danger of being stuck up, to use a slang phrase, on its passage, or to increase the police guard. Have we the men?"
"Yes," he said, "I can spare thirty men on Saturday, and will send them up then. With fifty men Serferez Ali could hold out against ten thousand dacoits."
"Very well, so be it."
"That's settled, then. Hola! what have we here, a billet-doux?" and Hawkshawe held between his finger and thumb the gray envelope he had taken from the messenger who brought it into the room and handed it to Peregrine. "Is the fair Ruys asking you to dinner?"
For the life of him Jackson could not help the hot blood rushing to his face, and there was something inexpressibly galling in Hawkshawe's tone. "Excuse me," and he tore open the envelope. It was an invitation to dine, and as he put it down Hawkshawe made a further remark that stung him to the quick. He turned round upon his visitor and said shortly, "Supposing we drop the subject or drop each other."
Hawkshawe stared at him, and then, pulling his cheroot slowly from his mouth, apologized awkwardly. "Didn't mean to offend you, old chap--beg pardon and all that--will come in and see if you can go out for a ride later on."
He clanked out of the room and left Jackson to himself. Peregrine picked up the note and read it again, and there was again a struggle within him. Should he face or flee the temptation? He felt that the latter alternative was hardly possible, and then it would be cowardly. No, he was going to deliberately try his strength against himself; the battle should be fought out to the end. He would face the trouble and he would conquer. He felt that the love that had sprung into being, like Pallas, full armed, could only be conquered by grappling it by the throat. He could not run from himself, and he would not if he could. So he wrote a few lines accepting the invitation, and then, deliberately tearing Ruys's letter up into the smallest fragments, turned to his files and plodded on steadily. He must have worked in this way for at least a couple of hours when an unaccountable feeling told him there was some one in the room. He looked up, but saw no one, and was just about to turn to his work again when something was thrust over his shoulder, and, turning round, he saw Anthony Pozendine.
"What is it, Mr. Pozendine?"
Anthony could hardly speak. He stammered out something about Mr. Hawkshawe--abuse--damfool--and, placing his complaint on the table before his chief, stood bolt upright at attention, for he was a volunteer.
Jackson patiently read every line of the four pages of foolscap, and then turned gravely on Anthony.
"Mr. Pozendine, you are on very dangerous ground. If your story about the abuse is true, you have perhaps a little cause of complaint; but as for the rest, it is absurd. Do you know what you are saying about Mr. Hawkshawe?"
"Yes, sir. It is true. I will go into court and swear; so also will Mr. Iyer."
Peregrine touched a bell. "Send Mr. Iyer here," he said to the messenger.
A minute after Mr. Iyer came. He stepped into the room briskly, seemed a trifle surprised to see Anthony, but said nothing. "Mr. Iyer," said Jackson, "Mr. Pozendine here says you are prepared to bear him out in certain statements he makes. Perhaps, Mr. Pozendine, you had better explain."
"Yes, sir," said Anthony, while the Madrassee's face assumed an expression of the utmost concern.
"You know what I have written here?" said Anthony.
"No," replied Iyer, holding up a deprecating hand, "I know nothing."
"Didn't Mr. Hawkshawe call me a damfool?"
"Every one say so, but I didn't hear. I know nothing."
"The man is frightened, sir," said Anthony to Jackson.
"There is no necessity to be frightened, Mr. Iyer; you can speak freely."
"Frightened!" said Mr. Iyer. "Why should I be frightened? I am an honest man, of a large family, and will speak the truth."
Anthony's face brightened up as he asked, "Didn't Mr. Hawkshawe take money?"
"Iyoo!" exclaimed the Madrassee, flinging up his arms; "I never heard these things. Sir, this man Pozendine is trying to get me into trouble. He is my enemy since long time. He one big liar," and the Madrassee shook a finger at Pozendine. "Mr. Hawkshawe take bribe! No, not Mr. Hawkshawe, but Mr. Pozendine. He take bribe from Bah Hmoay and Moung Sen over Dorian fruit--witness--all bazaar knows it. I will bring four--five--one hundred witness. Sir, this one big scoundrel!"
It was too much for Pozendine; his nerves had given way, and with a scream he flung himself at Jackson's feet and grovelled there.
"Pity!" he yelled; "I have twenty-four years' service--pardon!"
* * * * *
An hour later, when Hawkshawe came according to his word to see if Jackson would go for a ride, he found Peregrine apparently idling before his table.
"Ha! I see you've found nothing to do; come along."
"I can't," said Peregrine; "I want to think out something."
"Oh, don't let that little affair of Pozendine's bother you. It didn't happen in your time, you know. You'll get all the credit of finding out about the bribery and corruption."
"Do you know what has happened?"
"Ain't I your Fouché? Are you coming?"
"No, thanks. I must think this out."
Hawkshawe turned and went, whistling gaily. Mounting his horse, he galloped down a long embankment along the river face, and then, reining in, stood apparently watching Pazobin robed in the glories of a wondrous sunset. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I very nearly made an ass of myself over that police guard. Anyhow, if this comes off, no more of it; but Ma Mie is getting dangerous. My nerve is not what it used to be, but--I must get rid of her at all risks. Damn that straight-laced fool Jackson! He's always bringing back recollections to me, and I, Alban Hawkshawe, can not afford to remember--to think that my honour was once as clean as the palm of my hand, and now----"
He put spurs to his waler, and galloped into the gray mist that surrounded the forest.
* * * * *
A week after, the big native rice boat that slowly made its way up the river to Rangoon bore with it two passengers. One, seated among a heap of brass pots and pans, surrounded by eatables, principally fruit, could be recognised as Mr. Iyer; the other, who crouched on a coil of rope, was Anthony Pozendine. Neither spoke to the other, but in their eyes was a sullen hatred which showed what their thoughts were, and if either had the courage there would have been murder on the big boat that worked its sluggish way upstream. One morning, however, the Madrassee spoke to his companion.
"We are both ruined, Pozendine," he said. "What will you do?" Anthony made no answer, and Iyer went on. "There is only one chance--let us join together in Rangoon and tell all about Hawkshawe. We know true things, and government will give us back our posts. I swear by Krishna that I will be true; give me your hand."
Pozendine stretched out his sticky fingers, and the hands of the two men met. Then they sat together and talked all day as if there never had been any enmity between them, planning the coup which was to get them back their post, with a mental reservation that when this was accomplished there was yet another account to settle.