Hector Graeme

by Evelyn Brentwood

To those accustomed to the greensward and trees of a British racecourse, that of Riwala would have come as a rather doleful surprise. Facing a great open stretch of dusty maidan, around which ran the track, rose the grand stand, a bare-looking edifice of wood and corrugated iron, surrounded by iron railings, forming the enclosure, where the various regiments of the garrison dispensed hospitality. For some hundred yards to the right and left of the stand the course, unmarked save by rows of whitewashed stones and a few flags, was shut in by a double row of wooden railings, the stand side and enclosure being reserved for the élite, that opposite for the [Greek: oi polloì] and such natives of the lower order as cared to attend.

The second race had just finished when Lucy and her husband arrived, and a babel of voices was rising on the air, bookmakers shouting their anxiety to pay on the winner, and spectators chattering to the accompaniment of brassy and somewhat unpleasing music from the band of the Queen's Own Purple Fusiliers.

All the notabilities of Riwala—almost, it might be said, of the Punjaub—were here assembled, mostly of military status, it is true, but nevertheless comprising a few civilians of importance, such as Mr. Timothy Qui Hye, the Commissioner, and, greater still, Sir Backshish Gussle Khana, Lieut.-Governor of the Punjaub—a very big man, and one conscious of his eminence, though, like some other great men, a little careless in his attire; his boots, of the kind known as "Jemima," and a "made-up" tie marring an otherwise irreproachable costume of decent black.

Many others were there too, though not of such eminence as his. Lady Pompom, for instance—the wife of Sir Julius Pompom, commanding the station of Dam Kot—a regal-looking lady, in a dress of imperial purple, surmounted by a white solar topee tastefully decorated with yellow flowers. A crowd of youths were about her, for Lady Pompom was fond of boys, designating them "young people of my own age." Some of these young people, it is true, looked as though they would like to be elsewhere, but no such defection was possible, as well they knew, for that would mean the official displeasure of Sir Julius, with, possibly, consequent stoppage of leave, and even—such things had been known—nasty remarks in confidential reports.

Those two ladies yonder, who were so warmly yet carefully embracing—a loving handclasp, a peck on the right place, a "How sweet you look!" and the thing was done—were Mrs. Warmon, the wife of Major Warmon of the 250th Mesaltchis, and her friend and foe, Mrs. Charpoy, better half of Colonel Charpoy, commanding the Purple Fusiliers. Rival beauties of Riwala, they hated each other right well, hence the warmth of the embrace; and both being a trifle touched up, this accounted for their care in bestowing the kiss, which operation completed they parted and spoke to each other no more that day.

Forlorn and unattended, on the steps of the grand stand, sat the two Game girls, their eyes roving in search of male recognition. This was their third year in the country, but, though hitherto unappropriated, hope was far from dead in their somewhat flat bosoms. Possibly the net may have been spread a little too openly in the sight of the bird, but, be this as it may, gamebag and creel were still empty, and the Misses Game remained, and were likely to remain, the Misses Game.

Into this throng walked Lucy, Hector following. She was all smiles, now that there were others to see—a trim, sporting-looking figure in brown, with a hat of the same colour, touched with vermilion, and smart, laced-up patent-leather boots. Not for long, however, was she suffered to remain with her husband, a cluster of young men soon surrounding her, all anxious to give her tea, show her their ponies, any pretext to draw her away for a little private conversation. For Lucy, unlike Hector, was a popular person with all, from the great Sir Backshish himself to little Tickler Macpherson, the dusky daughter—one of fourteen—of Dugald Macpherson, Assistant Commissioner of Riwala, Highland of name though café au lait in hue.

Reputed inaccessible to lovemakers, too, was Mrs. Graeme, which quality, and the ready sympathy she showed with their various husband, lover, and servant troubles, endeared her to the women, in spite of her looks and clothes; while at the same time it rendered her conquest incumbent on all self-respecting shikaris of ladies.

Eventually Captain Knowles, proficient at the game of love-making, wrested the prize from the other competitors, somewhat to his own surprise, for, though for some time he had done his best, he could not pretend that that best had been crowned with any measure of success. To-day, however, there was a welcome change in the lady's manner—she no longer chilled but smiled upon his efforts, ignoring her husband, to whom the gay captain, as she knew, was anathema. To her annoyance, Hector showed none of his usual signs of restiveness at the other's presence; on the contrary, he rather abetted his endeavours to please, and, on Knowles suggesting tea, handed her over willingly, and, turning away, was soon lost to view in the crowd. For a moment Lucy stood looking blankly after him, but, speedily rallying, expressed a desire for shelter from the sun, and Knowles, instantly responding, led her away in triumph, and was shortly afterwards comfortably seated beside his booty in the darkest corner of one of the big marquees.

"Thank Heaven," muttered Hector, "I'm alone at last, now, what's to be done to pass the time? Confound this waiting, my nerves are all anyhow. Hullo, there's Cyclops, I'll go and have a look at him." He walked away to where a native was standing holding a pony, a dun-coloured beast, rusty-coated and hideous. One of his eyes was gone, the result of a blow from the fork of a revengeful sais, whose arm Cyclops had playfully chawed; the other was small, and, as usual, vindictive-looking.