In 1891, in Shwegyin (pronounced Shwayjeen), then the headquarters of a district in Burma, but now decayed, because the railway went another road, I became aware as I sat in office of an unusual hush in the precincts of the public buildings. My messenger came uncalled into my room, and stood as if struggling to speak but unable to articulate. My head clerk, the excellent Babu Chowdry, followed him, though it was an uncommon time for him to come in. With obvious difficulty and hesitation, almost stammering, the Babu said, “The devil has come to town.”
Ah, if I were only a fictioneer, what a brilliant opening this gives for fine writing. It might be indulged in without fear of contradiction; for, if Babu Chowdry read a thing I wrote as an account of our talk, he would not only affirm it to be true, but honestly believe it. All the King’s Counsel in London, cross-examining in partnership, could not shake him, or do anything but make everybody, [153] ]themselves included, believe him the more. His transparent good faith would convince them. This is not ironical, but the simple truth. If I wrote in the Kipling fashion, keeping faithful to what the Babu could recall, he would trust me for the rest, so that the story might be told in this way.
“The Devil has come to town,” said the Babu.
“Show him in.”
“But he is not here. He’s in the town.”
“Send for him then.”
“But he won’t come. He ...”
“Tell the police to fetch him.”
“How? He ...”
“You should know perfectly that no warrant is required. He can be arrested without a warrant if he won’t come quietly, were it only for being without a visible and respectable means of subsistence. Send a note to the superintendent.”