Some writer has well observed, that “gratitude is too often but a lively sense of favours to come;” to Asiatics, or natives of India, at all events, this remark applies with more force than to Europeans in general. That my friend Chattermohun’s gratitude partook largely of this prospective character, soon became abundantly apparent.
“Master I understand will shortly go ope contree?”
“Yes, Chattermohun, I’m off to-morrow—please the pigs; have you any commands?”
“No, sair, command not got; but——”
Here was a pause; after which, Chattermohun resumed his plan of operations in the usual wily style of the Bengalee; any one of whom I’ll pit against any Jew in the Minories.
“Does master know,” said he, with an air of perfect unpremeditation, “one gintleman name Captain Belfil, who was shortly go Danapore?”
“Oh, yes,” said I, falling into the trap; “to be sure I do; we’re going up together.”
“Master go up contree with Captain Belfil? I not know that” (the vagabond had come up on purpose to make his approaches through me); “then that will be good bis’ness for master; master very clever gintleman, but little too much young to go up river by ownself. I think Master Belfil will be in paymaster bis’ness—got good ’pointment up contree?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I believe he has—paymaster of invalids, somewhere or other. But now, Chattermohun, my good fellow, make yourself scarce, if you please, for I’ve a plaguy deal to attend to, and must be very busy.”
Chattermohun raised his hand, enveloped in its snowy, muslin drapery, slowly to his forehead, and made me a profound salaam, but stirred not—there was evidently something in the background. At last, out it plumped.