Chapter Thirteen.
Part V—The Indian Jungle.
A Tête-à-Tête Dinner—Letters from Home—The Journey Junglewards—The Camp and Scenery around it—A Sportsman’s Paradise—Lost in the Forest.
In a large and beautiful room in one of the upper storeys of a Club, on the outskirts of Bombay, four gentlemen are seated at dinner one evening, not long after the events related in the last chapter. It is evidently quite a tête-à-tête affair, for they are all by themselves in a corner, at the extreme end of the spacious apartment, close to the great windows that lead on to the verandah. The balmy evening air, laden with the scent of a thousand flowers, steals in, and is put in motion by an immense punkah which hangs above them, and kept moving by a little nigger-boy, dressed in a jacket of snow apparently, who squats in a far corner like a monkey, and requires the united efforts of the three servants who wait at table to keep him awake. No matter what these men are carrying, they always stop as they pass to give Jumlah a kick, making some such remark as—“Jumlah, you asleep again, you black rascal! I kick ebery bit of skin off you presently?” Or, “Jumlah, you young dog, suppose you go asleep just one oder time, den I break ebery bone in your black body!”
The jalousies are wide open, for the day has been hot, and every breath of air is precious. Although the waiters indignantly refer to the colour of poor Jumlah’s skin, they themselves are black, though dressed in cool white linen.
You have guessed already who the gentlemen are. Let us follow them out to the verandah, where they have gone to sip their fragrant coffee. Stars are twinkling in the bright sky, fireflies flit from bush to bush in the gardens beneath, the distant sound of music falls upon their ear, mingling with the far-off city’s hum, the beating of tom-toms, and shrill screams and yells, which may mean anything from mirth to murder.
Conversation during dinner had been very animated indeed; but sitting out here on the cool verandah no one seemed much inclined to speak. Frank had received letters from home, Fred had received letters from Russia; and very pleasant letters, I ween, they were, for they bore reading over and over and over again. Chisholm’s letters were what he called “jolly enough,” only as soon as he had read them, and laughed over them, he just tore them up and pitched them into the basket.
“Hallo, you fellows!” cried Chisholm suddenly. “Awake from your slumbers.”