'Hullo, Rana-sahib! what's up? something gone wrong with the fireworks?' asked Jack Raymond, turning at once. His tone was friendliness itself. And no wonder. Many a time had he, hard rider as he was, wondered at the old Thakoor of Dhurmkote's dash and pluck after boar. Many a time had they sate up in machâns after tiger together, and many a time had Jack--wiser for the reckless, proud old sinner than he was for himself--urged him to retrench, to keep from the usurers. In vain. The old man, head of his clan, would only say, 'Not so, sahib. If the son had lived, perhaps. But the tiger took advantage of his youth. So let me live and die as my fathers lived and died.' And then he would launch out into further extravagance, as fine a specimen of the native gentleman before we meddled with the mould, as could be found in the length and breadth of the land.

'Wrong with my fireworks?' he echoed indignantly. 'There is nothing wrong with them, though the others stinted me, from the beginning, out of jealousy! Yet I had fooled them. But now, because folk laughed at God knows what, they want them earlier. It is jealousy again. It is to ruin my reputation as connoisseur. I, who have spent lacs on fireworks. I, who to prove what I could do with the miserable pittance assigned to me, have paid Meena Buksh, firework-maker, five thousand rupees extra--I had but two allowed me, Huzoor--out of mine own pocket, or rather out of Salig Râm the usurer's, since I reft it from him with threats--he owns land, see you, as well as money----'

Here the old man, who had been carried away thus far by his grievance, became aware that Jack Raymond's companion was not, as he had deemed, some young Englishman who would either not care to listen or would not understand if he did; and in any case would not make mischief out of the confidence. For Chris Davenant, hemmed in a corner beyond escape, had been unable to repress a smile at the old chieftain's method of proving his good management and economy.

'Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Krishn Davenund, Rana-sahib,' said Jack Raymond hastily, noticing the old man's haughty stare. 'I think you knew his father, Pandit Sri Pershâd, judge of the Small Cause Court.'

Considering that the magistrate in question, being more or less in feudal relations with the Thakoors of Dhurmkote, had strained many a point in favour of their extravagance, the acquaintance was indisputable; yet the Rana-sahib's salaam was of the curtest compatible with courtesy to the introducer, and he drew Jack Raymond aside to continue in a lower voice--

'They want me to be ready in ten minutes, and that means ruin; for some fool set fire to a bit of my best set piece, and 'twill take twenty to repair.'

'But why not begin with something else?' suggested his hearer.

The Thakoor's face was a study in triumph and disappointment. 'Because it is a welcome to the Lât-sahib, and a welcome must come first. And it is new also--a welcome in roman candles and sulphur stars; my reputation is in it.'

'Then why not show it as it is, and explain the accident?'

The Thakoor looked uncertain. 'That might be. How would it look, think you, sahib, "God," then a blank--for that is where the damage comes in--"our new Lieutenant-Governor"? Would it be understanded, think you? Would it look well--in Roman candles and sulphur stars?'