"I tink Lord Charles like little more," Tom replied.
Of course, the cashier sent me the document. When I investigated Tom's transactions, I found a few of his forged cheques in the bank, and I could hardly tell the difference between my signature and his forgeries. The cheque-books were compared with the pass-book, and counterfoils were found to be missing. I took legal action against him, and he was sentenced to five years. Shortly afterwards, when I was in Scotland, I received a letter from the hapless Tom, saying he was dying, and asking me to come and see him. I went at once. I found him in the infirmary, a dying man indeed, with his face to the wall. A Chinaman dies at will. He simply lies down and dies; but by the same token, he can continue to live. So I determined to rouse him. I hailed him in a loud and cheerful voice.
"Tom! Cheer up, Tom! What's the matter? You're not ill. Rouse up."
"Me die, master," said Tom.
"Not you," I said. "Come! Cheer up, and I'll try to get you out of this."
And sure enough, he turned back, became quite well, and I secured his release after he had served a short term. I found him a place in China, sent him East, and never saw him again. When I went to China subsequently, I failed to find him. After his interval of Western service, China took him and swallowed him up. And that was the end of Tom Fat.
He was in my service when, upon the return voyage to Australia of the Galatea, we touched at Mauritius. In that strange island I came across a youthful negro savage. I learned his history from his master, an amiable French gentleman. Punch, as I named him, had been brought to Mauritius by a British cruiser. The warship had chased a slaver, whose crew jettisoned the slaves. They were fettered in chains and hove over the side. When the British seamen boarded the vessel they found her holds empty, except for the odour. In a dark corner was stowed a bundle of rags, into which a bluejacket thrust his cutlass. The rags sprang to life with a yell, and there was Punch with a wound in his thigh, of which he carried the scar to his end.
It occurred to me that Punch would serve me for a groom, and I said so to his master.
"Tiens!" said that gentleman pleasantly. "You shall have him for five shilling."
"Done!" said I, and paid him the money. He did not think I was serious; but he made no bones about ridding himself of his garden-boy.