“Tell him to deliver it,” he said.
Before Mr. Scrafton could interpret this command, which he was about to do, I interposed, addressing Mr. Clive in English.
“The Meer Jaffier bade me salute you privately, sir. Is it your pleasure that Mr. Scrafton should be present?”
The Colonel and his secretary stared at each other, as they well might.
“Who are you, man?” demanded Mr. Clive. “And how do you know this gentleman’s name?”
“I know his name very well, sir,” said I, “and I think he knows mine, unless by this time he has forgot his former pupil, Athelstane Ford.”
“By the Lord, if it isn’t my little purser!” exclaimed Colonel Clive.
And this great man was pleased to rise from his chair and shake me very warmly by the hand, declaring himself pleased to see me safe and sound again. Mr. Scrafton did the same, after which they made me sit down and tell the history of my adventures. They questioned me very closely about the character of Surajah Dowlah and the strength of his government, and after I had expressed my opinions, Mr. Clive told me that he believed he understood the Nabob’s character, and had written him a letter such as would send his heart into his boots.
“And that the whole of Indostan may know what I think of the young monster, I mean to send the letter open to his lieutenant, Monichund,” he said. “These barbarous nations shall be made to learn the English are their masters, and that every outrage upon an Englishman shall cost them dear.”