“The government,” returned the babu, with careful enunciation, “the government have make the dak bungalow for Europeans. Why; you may not ask me. In two years and nine days that I am living in Thenganyenam there are come two white men, and one have only rested and not sleep. But because the dak bungalow is make, all sahibs coming in Thenganyenam must stop in it. When I have see you coming by the foot and not by the horses I must know that you have not plenty money. Every day we are not everybody rich. How strong you have the legs to come from Kawkeriek by the foot! The two rupees you must not pay. If you can give some little to the cook, that he make you a supper—”
“That’s the word,” burst out James. “Sure, we pay for our chow. Where’s the chowkee? Tell him to get busy.”
“But,” apologized the babu, “this is a very jungly place and we have not proper food for Europeans.”
“Holy dingoes!” shrieked the Australian. “Do I hear that old, stale joke again? Bring a pan of rice, or a raw turnip, or a fried snake, anything, only julty karow. That wobbly-legged boh scoffed all his sandwiches without saying ‘How d’ye do,’ and that breakfast in Kawky didn’t last an hour. Ring up the chowkee.”
“The other day,” observed the babu, reminiscently, “there was a chicken in Thenganyenam. I shall send the cook to hunt him.”
Through the united efforts of the Thenganyenamians, the solitary fowl was run to earth, with more hubbub than dispatch, and sacrificed in sight of the assembled multitude. A delay that was both painful and unaccountable ensued before it appeared before us as tongue-scorching currie, in an ample setting of hard-boiled rice.
Meanwhile we had pulled off our water-soaked rags, rubbed down with a strip of canvas, and donned our extra garments. The change was most gratifying. It was not until then that we realized the full value of the squares of oilcloth that had kept our “swag” dry. Supper over, we drove the babu forth into the night and turned in on the canvas charpoys.
The swamps and streams through which we had plunged during the day had swarmed with leeches. One of these, having imbedded itself in a vein of my right ankle, refused to be dislodged. At supper a tiny stream of blood had trickled along my toes; but, fancying the flow would cease of itself, I made no efforts to staunch it. I awoke in the morning with the sensation of being held captive. The blood, oozing out during the night, had congealed, gluing my right leg to the canvas of the charpoy.
Before I had dressed, the Hindu cook and care-taker wandered into the room; and, catching sight of the long, red stain, gave one lusty shriek, and tumbled out on the veranda. James, who had slept in an adjoining chamber, was awakened by the bellow, and, hearing the Hindustanee word for “blood,” sprang to his feet with the conviction that I had been assassinated as he slept. I was explaining the matter to him when the cook returned, wild of eye, and bearing the register in which we had inscribed our names the evening before. Waving his free arm now at the book, now at the charpoy, he danced about us screaming excitedly. Comprehending little of his voluble chatter, we waved him off and stepped out upon the veranda. The “manager” was just mounting the steps.
“Here, babu,” demanded James, “what’s biting our friend from the kitchen?”