Here Mark was joined by his father. He was dressed in a shrunken Puttoo suit, and looked frail and feeble, but such a gentleman in spite of all his shabbiness!
“This is my walk and my seat,” he explained. “I sit here for hours. That white line far below is the cart road, and with a good glass you can make out carts and tongas; and far away on the plains, twice a day in clear weather, you can see the smoke of the train. So I get some glimpses of the world after all.”
“And how are you off for neighbours, sir?”
“My nearest is an American missionary and doctor; he is twelve miles from here; and there is a German mission fifteen miles across that hill”—pointing with a stick.
“And your post? What about your letters?”
“Oh, I don’t want a post; once in six months or so I send a coolie down to Ramghur.”
“Then you don’t take a daily paper?”
“Oh no; why should I? There are stacks of old ones about the house,” was the amazing reply.
“And books?”
“I’m a man of one book. I read the Indian Army List; that is quite enough literature for me. Some fellow’s names alone call up a whole novel.”