As he drew nearer, walking straight and soldierly, young Barclay could not help remarking how extremely handsome he was. No sculptor could have fashioned from black marble more comely chiselled features had he tried ever so much. He was young, perhaps not over twenty-five, and his long brown hair depended in ringlets almost to his waist.
The weird wee man rubbed his hands with glee.
“Ha!” he cried, “now is my establishment complete. Here comes Pandoo, my faithful man of Mahratta.”
He waved him a welcome from the balcony, and Pandoo looked up and smiled, showing as he did so two rows of teeth as white as those of a Norfolk spaniel. In a minute or two more Pandoo presented himself.
He had divested himself of his sandals, and he bowed low as he took his master’s hand and raised it till it touched his brow—a most graceful form of salutation, never seen in our rough-and-tumble haughty Briton.
“So you lib (live), sah?”
“Yes, Pandoo, and I’m hearty and hopeful.”
“And you still tink you go to sea in big ship and make you’ fortoon, sah?”
“Sure of it, Pandoo. Sure of it, lad. And, look here, you shall share it.”
“Pandoo’s heart do flutter wit’ joy and ’citement.”