“But he’s gone to India!” cried Singh excitedly.
“Gone to India, sir? Well, he’s only got as far as the elephant, and that’s in Brummagem town as sure as I am sitting here.”
“Do you hear this, Glyn?” cried Singh excitedly.
“Oh yes, I hear,” was the reply, and the two lads exchanged glances, while Ramball sat shaking and nodding his head like a mandarin image.
“It’s no use, gentlemen. You threw that chance away. He come after me and followed me up all through the Midlands. Half-starved he was, pore chap. I never see such a gentlemanly sort of chap so hard pushed as he was; and at last out of charity like I took him on. And very glad I am, for he’s turned out capital. He talks that Indian gibberish to the old Rajah, and the big beast follows him about like a lamb. Never have a bit of trouble with him now, only when he tries to shove one of the caravans over with that big head of his, just in play; and then Bah Klay—that’s his show-name, and a very good one too—comes and says ‘Hookah-bah-dah’ and ‘Shallahballah,’ and the Rajah follows him as quiet as can be.”
“Oh,” said Singh.
“Ah, I wish you could see him, sir,” continued Ramball, dabbing his head pleasantly with his yellow handkerchief. “Bah Klay is quite an addition to my show, and the people come in hundreds to see him and the Rajah alone. It was him himself as came to me one day and proposed it.”
“What, the Rajah?” cried Glyn.
“The Rajah! Tchah! What are you talking about? No; Bah Klay. He said it wouldn’t cost much, and that if I’d pay for the white cotton bed-gown sort of thing for him to wear and some scarlet muslin to roll up to make a muzzle to wear upon his head—”
“Muzzle! Over his mouth, you mean,” cried Glyn.