“Hah! that’s right,” he said, handing it back. “Nothing like having an uncle rich, and a director at the India House. You’ll get into the horse by-and-by. Let’s see, what was your uncle?”
“An indigo-planter, sir.”
“Hah! that means money, Vincent. Well, I shall not have to draw on your father. So much the better. There, you had better begin making your preparations at once, and if there is anything I can do in the way of help or advice, come to me without scruple. Seems only the other day that I was ordering my own kit, Vincent, previous to sailing for Bombay. There, off with you. I’m sure you want to digest the news.”
I did—badly, but I could not do it, for the news had already leaked out, and there was Morton at the head of all the other fellows, ready to raise a hearty cheer for the new officer about to depart from their midst.
The cheering was followed by a chairing, and when at last I escaped, I hurried off to my room with the whirl of confusion greater than ever, so that I began to wonder whether it was not all a dream.
Chapter Two.
I was horribly suspicious about that military tailor in Saint James’s Street. Over and over again I felt that he must be laughing at me, as he passed his tape round my chest and waist.
But he was a pattern of smooth politeness, and as serious as a judge, while I sought for little bits of encouragement, painfully conscious as I was about my physique.