On one point Captain Waring and Mr. Pollitt were most warmly agreed, viz. that “the trip must be done in good style if done at all.”
Mark was inclined to travel “on the cheap,” his uncle had complained, and had protested against a large quantity of baggage, a battery of guns, and a valet.
“Thirty pair of boots!” he cried. “What rubbish! I am not going to walk round India!”
“But Clarence says you can’t do with less, and he must know better than you do,” argued Mr. Pollitt. “I wish you to travel like a gentleman, not like a bag-man. There is where you disappoint me, my boy—you make no show, no dash; your tastes are all for quiet—your favourite character is the violet, and you prefer a back seat. You are going out in the same steamer with a lot of nobs—I’ve seen to that—and it is as likely as not that you will join forces when you land. These swells take to you. As for me, they only take to my dinners, and my deer forest. However, as long as you are in the best set, I don’t care—I’m satisfied.”
“I think Clarence and I will stick to ourselves, and not join any party, sir; we will be more independent. He has sketched out our beat—Bombay, Poonah, Secunderabad, Travancore, Madras, Ceylon, Calcutta, the hills; and that puts me in mind to ask if you have any idea of my father’s whereabouts?”
“Bostock and Bell, Bombay, are his agents,” evading the question and his nephew’s eyes.
“I know that; I have written to their care steadily for the last six years.”
“And never had an answer?” with ill-concealed satisfaction.
“No, except a ‘Pioneer’ at long, long intervals.”
“Just to show that he is alive? Let me see, it is eight years since he left the service and went to live at a place called the Doon. He wrote pretty regularly up to then; and when Mrs. Jervis was killed in that carriage accident, he never sent a line, only a paper. Poor woman! I believe she led him a devil of a life. She was insanely jealous.”