“No; drugs—two devils: cocaine and morphia.”
“I say, that’s bad; can’t you take a pull at yourself?”
“Too late now.”
“Nothing’s too late,” declared Shafto; “believe that and buck up. Well, here are four rupees for you.”
As he put them into a shaking hand the match went out, and the loafer noiselessly melted away into the soft and impenetrable darkness.
Next morning Shafto informed Roscoe of this strange encounter.
“Such a water-logged derelict was never seen! One of your underworld friends, I take it?”
“Worse than that,” rejoined Roscoe; “he’s my own first cousin.”
In reply to Shafto’s exclamation he added: “His father was the officer I told you about, who was so terribly worried by the plays. This chap was erratic, but a clever fellow and great at languages; he passed into the Woods and Forests out here, and enjoyed the wild jungle life for a good many years; now you see what he is—a wild man of the bazaars.”
“But I say, Roscoe; can you do nothing?”