“No, no,” I answered; “here in the law, in Calcutta.”
“Oh! what master mean Mr. Duggin ’sliciter? Yes, sar, I know him ver well; he greatly respect-i-me—that time he was live.”
“Why, I trust he’s not dead?” I exclaimed, in astonishment: “he was well at Bombay the last accounts we had of him.”
“No, Sar, not dead; master not underistand; I mean that time was live here, Chowrunghee.”
Though rather green and guileless in those days, as maybe inferred from the foregoing example, and unwilling, unless on something stronger than mere primâ facie evidence, to imagine deception; yet I began to suspect that the rascal was humbugging me for a purpose, and was about to let him know as much, in rather strong terms, when he adroitly changed the key.
“Master will be in ’tillery, I think?”
“No,” said I impatiently; “infantry, infantry; but don’t bother, and us be off.”
“All same,” he continued, determined to have his talk out; “master will require plenty thing, all which I can supply—bist of quality—if require too good-i-sarvant: will you take this man?—plenty character he got.”
So saying, he presented to my notice a queer, raffish-looking fellow, with a bush of hair and a black beard, and dressed in quite a different style of costume to that of the others. This worthy—a Mussulman khidmutgar or footman—made his salaam, and thrust into my hand two or three well-soiled certificates, which stated that Ramjahn Khan (ang. Rumjohnny,) had served the writers (captain this and lieutenant that) with zeal and fidelity, and to their perfect satisfaction. Of these “characters,” by the way, all domestics have a stock, or, if not, they borrow or hire them (being as accommodating one to another in that way, as was the Irish priest who, as related by the pleasant author of Wild Sports of the West, on a pinch, and to save appearances, gave his friend, the Protestant curate of Connemara, the loan of his congregation), with sufficient information touching the subscribers to allow of some slight questioning, though by no means of an adroit cross-examination—a thing at this time, however, in the native language, quite beyond my powers, albeit I had puzzled my brains a little on ship-board with a certain celebrated philologist’s orthoepigraphico-pseudolatitudio-logical works, and could patter a few sentences of Hindostanee in the “Myn nuheen kitai hoon” style, in a way really to “astonish the natives.”
To cut the matter short, however, I hired Rumjohnny on the strength of his testimonials; and having now got my baggage all up, moved off with him and Chattermohun Ghose to the Custom-house. Having arranged matters there, I proceeded through the thronged streets of Calcutta to a tavern or punch-house, somewhere in the aristocratic region of Ranamoody Gully; a sort of place of entertainment which, in those days (though, from their improved character the case is now, I understand, different), it was considered quite infra dig. in a gentleman to visit. However, being a griff, I knew nothing of this, and if the case had been otherwise, I should have been without an alternative. Dirty tablecloths, well spotted with kail and mustard; prawn curries, capital beef-steaks, domestics of the cut of Rumjohnny, a rickety, rusty, torn billiard-table, on which, day and night, the balls were going, lots of shippies, and a dingy bed, were the leading features of this establishment, not forgetting clouds of voracious and well-fleshed musquitoes, to which those of Madras were a mere joke.