“Perhaps so; one never knows. You’ll see enough some day if you wait patiently,” continued Wyatt; “and after you’ve seen a rajah sitting like a figure of Buddha, dressed up in muslins and cloth of gold, and flashing with diamonds, in his howdah, you’ll think what a stupid old woman he looks, and be ready to bless your stars that you weren’t born a rajah or nawab or gaikwar out here, but an English gentleman, which, after all, is the finest title under the sun.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Dick slowly; “there’s something very attractive in show.”
“Can’t be very comfortable to be going about dressed like a woman.”
“I shouldn’t dislike one of their jewelled swords.”
“Tchah! Our service-blade is worth a hundred of them. Why, there’s no grip to them; and as to the jewels, they must be always getting knocked out of the settings. All very well to have under a glass case. I say, did you hear about your friend the Black Diamond?”
“Bob Hanson? Yes,” said Dick gloomily. “I was in hopes that he was turning over a new leaf.”
“Not he.”
“It’s having leave to go out in the native quarters and getting that abominable arrack. That dose of cells ought to set him right again. Let’s see; he was out again this morning, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, yes,” said Wyatt derisively; “he was out again last night. Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard? Heard what?”