“There’s no saying. No fool like an old one. You wrote again last mail, did you not? Wrote to the right one! I’ll take good care to see you turned off myself this time. In a couple of months your hair will have grown, and you’ll be fit to be seen, and then you can go down to Bombay and marry the other Miss Browne.”
And he did.
“IF YOU SEE HER FACE.”
“I heard a voice across the press,
Of one who called in vain.”
Barrack Room Ballads.
Daniel Gregson, Esq., B.S.C., political agent to the Rajah of Oonomore (a child of seven years of age), and Percy Goring, his junior assistant, were travelling from their own state to attend the great Delhi durbar. Mr. Gregson was a civilian of twenty-five years’ standing, short of neck, short of stature, and short of temper. His red face, pale prominent eyes, and fierce bushy brows had gained for him the nickname of “The Prawn;” but he was also known as a marvellously clever financier, ambitious, shrewd, and prompt in action; and by those who were under him, he was less loved than feared. Young Goring was just twenty-six, and much more eager to discuss good shooting, or a good dance, than the assessment of land, the opium trade, or even acting allowances!
The pair journeyed with due ceremony on the native state line, and in the little Rajah’s own gilt and royal carriage. He was laid up in the palace with chicken-pock, and had wept sorely because he had been unable to accompany his guide, philosopher, and friend to the grand “Tamasha,” to wear his new velvet coat, and all his jewels, and to hear the guns, that would thunder in his honour. Child as he was, he was already keenly sensitive respecting his salute!
Meanwhile the agent and his subordinate got on capitally without him, travelling at the leisurely rate of ten miles an hour, that fine November afternoon, surrounded with tiffin-baskets, cigarettes, ice-boxes, and other luxurious accompaniments. About four o’clock the train came to a sudden standstill—there was no station to account for this, merely a country road, a white gate, and a mud hut. The halt resolved itself into a full step; Mr. Gregson thrust his red face out of the window, and angrily inquired the reason of the delay.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the Eurasian guard, “there has been a break on the line—bridge gone—and we can’t get forward nohow.”