It took some time to develop and print the plates, as they were sent to Madras, and three days had elapsed before the photographer once more presented himself at the wooden postern.
Meanwhile he heard from Anthony, that the sahib was at home; for Chinna-Sawmy had obtained a footing in the go-downs, thanks to thumb tricks, and his repertoire of new, and improper, Tamil songs! The photographs were approved, with acclamation, and their bearer received a boisterous welcome from the boys and Mota, who amazing to relate, was their own sister! They all became demonstratively friendly, not to say familiar, and asked Mallender where he came from? how much he earned? and, last but by no means least, his name? which he informed them was "Geoffrey."
"Geoffrey," repeated "the Miss"; "I knew a fellow of that name wance in the Roifles—his father had a baker's shop in Cork; bedad, he was a nice bhoy! breaking out of barracks, making away with his kit, fighting, and playing the fool."
Her reminiscences were disturbed by the young people, who swarmed about the camera, begging leave to take snapshots of one another, or to pull off the cap, and to this the photographer graciously consented,—anything to linger, and to gain time.
"Photography is pure foolery," declared "the Miss," "and I would say against it, only it makes a diversion for them, poor children, and days do hang terribly heavy in the holidays and the hot weather: the boys goes to Doveton College, in Madras. Ye might do a single one of Miss Mota here just as a surprise for her Dada."
To this suggestion Mallender willingly assented. The ready and delighted Mota was posed, told to hold up her chin, try and think of something very nice, and make a good picture!
As the photographer's head was buried under the black cloth, taking a final look at his pretty little sitter, he heard the sound of a ringing, spurred, footfall on the verandah, a loud exclamation from the child, and a gruff voice, asking:
"What's all this?"
Mallender hastily divested himself of his head covering, and for once in his life was struck absolutely dumb. The man in riding-kit, and sun topee, who was staring at him, might be Major Smith, in Panjeverram,—but in England, he was a certain Major Rochfort, with whom the photographer was well acquainted! A good-looking, popular, middle-aged individual,—married to a great heiress. When Mallender was quartered in York, he had often met him in the hunting field, had dined at his house, and shot his covers.
Major Rochfort, for his part, stood transfixed, glaring at the intruder, as if he could not credit the evidence of his senses!