“Others may submit to them, but I will not.”
“Stir him oop with the lang pole,” again replied McScreechum.
All joined the medico in rallying the indignant lieutenant out of his wrath. The good-humoured Scotchman brewed and presented him a glass of grog, to allay the fury of “the black dog,” as he termed it.
“A soft answer turneth away wrath,” saith the proverb, and on the same principle, even a practical joke, though ever to be avoided, may be so softened by a little tact as to allay the anger which, in nine cases out of ten, it is sure to excite.
All these wild doings at an end, and matters properly composed, we adjourned to the dining-room, being summoned by a rather dingy-looking butler, or khanseman, very much resembling the worthy who has been recorded in these pages as having so suddenly decamped with my plate-chest.
Six wall-shades with oil glasses, a long table occupying the centre of the room, and about as many chairs as guests, constituted the sum total of the furniture.
In accordance with the almost universal custom of the military circles in India, camp fashion was the order of the day—that is, each gentleman had his own plates, knives and forks, and glasses, with a brace of muffineers, containing pepper and salt, flanking the same; these last, of every variety of size and shape, of glass, silver, or pewter, with a corresponding variety of patterns in the cutlery and plates, constituted as motley a show as can well be imagined.
The servants, too, were of the Rum-Johnny order—a dissolute, dirty set of Mahomedans, whom I have before described—those usually picked up by young officers on account of their speaking the English language, a qualification which is pretty certain to insure their rejection by old Indians. The dingy attire and roguish looks of these fellows harmonized well with the style of the entertainment.
The doctor took the head of the table; the noble fraternity of Griff Hall and their guests were soon seated. The khanseman-jee appeared, staggering under a huge dish, which he deposited at the head of the table; having done so, he lifted up the cover with the air of a major-domo, and there smoked the rooee muchee already mentioned.
“Wha’s for fesh?” asked the doctor, plying the fish-knife with the vigour of an Irish bricklayer when handling his trowel. “Wha’s for fesh? Here’s a bonnie fellow; ‘a sight like this is gude for sair een,’ as my old father, the provost, used to say.”