But he was a true disciple of Gautama, for he sauntered in, a few moments later, in company with five men in high-caste costumes.
“Any of you chaps speak English?” I cried.
The newcomers gave no sign of having understood. One, more showily dressed than his companions, sat down on a heap of rattan. The others grouped themselves about him, and a new conference began. The rain ceased. The lizards shrieked sardonically. James fell into a doze, humped together on his oil can.
Suddenly I caught, above the chatter, the word “babu.”
“Look here,” I interrupted, “If there’s a babu here he speaks English. Who is he?”
The only reply was a sudden silence that did not last long.
“Babu,” cried the shopkeeper, some moments later. This time there could be no doubt that he had addressed the silent Beau Brummel on the rattan heap.
“You speak English!” I charged, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Tell them we want something to eat.”
The fellow stared stolidly. If the title belonged to him he was anxious to conceal his accomplishments.
“It’s some damn sneak,” burst out James, “come here to eavesdrop.”