"Stewed duck, sir—curry, sir; pancake, sir. And by the time you eat that, one little quail ready, sir, with toast. I give dinner fit for a governor-general, sir; and the silver shining like the moon, sir."
(It was in this way that he ran on whilst laying the table.)
"But why are you preparing covers for two, when I am dining alone?"
"Yes, sir. But only poor mans has table laid for one. That place opposite is for company sake. And suppose some gentleman come—not likely here, but suppose? Then all is ready. No running about—no calling out, 'Bring plate, knife and fork, and spoon, and glass,' and all that. And if two plates laid, master, if he like—when I am standing behind his chair keeping the flies off while he eats—may fancy that some friend or some lady sitting opposite, and in his own mind he may hold some guftoogoo (conversation). That's why I lay the table for two, sir."
I had been warned by the gentleman who permitted Sham to accompany me, that he was such an invaluable servant, it was only politic to let him have his own way in trifling matters; and therefore instead of objecting to his proceeding, I applauded his foresight.
Whilst discussing the stewed duck, which was excellent—as was indeed every dish prepared by Sham, when he had "his own way—" and while he was standing behind me, keeping the flies off with a chowrie (a quantity of long horsehair fastened to a handle), I talked to him without turning my head:
"You say you wish to take a gun. Have you ever been out shooting?"
"Oh, yes, sir. When my master went up from Calcutta to Mussoorie and Simlah with the Governor-General, I went with him. And I often went out shooting in the Dhoon, with my master, who was a great sportsman, sir. And I was out with my master—on the same elephant—when the Governor-General shot the tiger."