“So you’re not a Burman?”
“Faix, I am not; I’m a native of Cork and was born in Madras, and only for yer honour we’d all be floating down the Irrawaddy this blessed minute.”
His honour found it impossible to articulate; he merely stood and gaped. The Irish pongye, born in Cork and Madras, was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged man, with high cheek-bones, a closely-shorn head, and horn spectacles.
“Might I ask yer name, sorr?” he inquired at last, “and where ye live?”
“My name is Shafto; I live in a chummery at the corner of Sandwith Road.”
“Oh, an’ well I know it an’ its old compound. They say it’s full of nats, because of a murder as was done there. My name is Mung Baw, at yer service, and I’ll not forget what ye did for me this day, and I’ll call round. Blessed hour! where’s my begging-bowl?”
As soon as Shafto had discovered and restored his patta, the pongye arose, gave himself a shake and, without another word, stalked away, a tall, erect, unspeakably majestic figure.
When Shafto met Roscoe he lost no time in recounting his extraordinary adventure, and added triumphantly:
“So you see, Joe Roscoe, you are not the only man here who makes a strange acquaintance.”
“I’m not surprised,” he rejoined; “I’ve heard more than once of these white pongyes. I dare say the chap will be as good as his word and will look you up; I foresee an interesting interview.”