“You see, I set great store by that turban. It was an old one of my father’s, and of course it was very valuable. You see, in Bungly Horror a turban like that—some fellows call them puggamarees, but that’s only because they are ignorant beggars—but as I was saying, turbans like that come down from father to son. I don’t know how old this one was, and nobody notices that they are old, because they always go so regularly to the wash; and you know the more muslin’s washed the whiter it gets, while as for the holes, of course, they are the beauty of it, because it gets to look more and more like splendid old lace.”
Slegge’s remarks remained problematical for a few moments, and then the meaning came with a flash to Burton, who had suddenly caught sight of Singh and Glyn.
He burst into a merry guffaw at once, and thus set off the rest, while Slegge waited till they had done before going on with the by no means poor imitation of Singh’s manner of speaking and a rather peculiar utterance of the consonant r.
“I don’t know what you fellows are laughing at,” he said, with a look of supreme innocency; “but I suppose you don’t know any better. It’s your ignorance of the value of family relics like that; and because you never see me bouncing about the schoolyard with my turban on, you think I haven’t got one in my box—I mean, had one; so now no more nonsense. Whoever took it for a lark had better put it back before I get my monkey up—Indian monkey, I mean—for if I do there’s going to be head-punching, and no mistake.”
“Come on, Singh,” said Glyn quietly, as he slipped his arm through his companion’s and tried to lead him away. “Don’t take any notice of the malicious brute.”
But Singh’s feet seemed to be shod with something magnetic which made them cling to the ground, and he stood fast.
“Come on, I say,” cried Glyn. “No nonsense! Do you hear?”
Singh turned upon him quickly with an angry flash in his eyes, and he was about to burst out with some fierce retort; but in those brief moments it seemed to him that it was not Glyn’s but the Colonel’s masterful eyes that were gazing down into his, as, truth to tell, they had more than once looked down upon his father in some special crisis when in the cause of right the brave English officer had with a few words mastered the untutored Indian chief, and maintained his position as adviser as well as friend.
The next minute Singh was walking quietly away by his companion’s side; but his arm kept giving a sharp jerk as Slegge went on speaking more and more loudly, uttering words so that the friends might hear.
“I don’t care,” said Slegge; “you fellows can do what you like, but I am not going to believe it. It’s all a got-up thing. I don’t believe there ever was any precious belt, or, if there was, it was only a green glass sham. Emeralds set in gold, indeed! Whoever heard of a fellow coming to school with a thing like that in his box? Bah! Yah! It isn’t likely that even a nigger would do it.” And as the companions passed out of earshot, Slegge continued, “It doesn’t matter to me; my time’s nearly up at school, thank goodness! and I shall finish with the next half. But I do pity you poor beggars who have got to stay. I don’t know what the place is coming to. It seems to me that old Bewley’s head’s getting soft, unless he’s getting so hard-up that he’s glad to take anybody’s money to keep the old mathematical musical-box going, or else he wouldn’t have taken a nigger to be put in the same rank with English gentlemen.”