“What?” said the Deputy-Commissioner, sharply.
“Glass!” said the engineer, in a bitter whisper. “Broken bottles. ’Undreds!”
“Let me see!” said the Deputy-Commissioner, losing all his dignity.
“Scotch, if I’m not mistaken,” said the engineer, sniffing curiously.
“Curse it!” said the Deputy-Commissioner, and looked up to meet a multitude of ironical eyes. “Er—
“The assembly is dismissed,” said the Deputy-Commissioner.
“What a fool he must have looked!” wheezed MacTurk, who did not like the Deputy-Commissioner. “What a fool he must have looked!
“Simple enough,” said MacTurk, “when you know how it came about.”
“But how did it come about?” asked the station-master.
“Secret drinking,” said MacTurk. “Bourbon whiskey. I taught him how to take it myself. But he didn’t dare let on that he was doing it, poor old chap! Mindapore’s one of the most fanatically Mahometan states in the hills you see. And he always was a secretive kind of chap, and given to doing things by himself. So he got that safe to hide it in, and keep the bottles. Broke ’em up to pack, I s’pose, when it got too full. Lord! I might ha’ known. When people spoke of his treasure—I never thought of putting that and the safe and the Bourbon together! But how plain it is! And what a sell for Parkinson. Pounded glass! The accumulation of years! Lord!—I’d, ’a’ given a couple of stone off my weight to see him open that safe!”