“He says he’s a treasure, my dear, but that’s a modest statement they all make. And he wishes to show you his chits; will you condescend to look at them?”
“What are his chits?” Helen inquired.
“His certificates from other people whose digestions he has ruined from time to time. Let’s see—‘Kali Bagh, cook’—that’s his name apparently, but you needn’t remember it, he’ll always answer to ‘Bawarchi!’—‘has been in my service eighteen months, and has generally given satisfaction. He is as clean as any I have ever had, fairly honest, and not inclined to be wasteful. He is dismissed for no fault, but because I am leaving India.’ H’m! I don’t think much of chits! This one probably ought to read, ‘He doesn’t get drunk often, but he’s lazy, unpunctual, and beats his wife. He has cooked for me eighteen months, because I have been too weak-minded to dismiss him. He now goes by force of circumstances!’ But it’s not a bad chit.”
“I don’t consider it a very good one,” said Helen. “As clean as any I have ever had!”
“That’s his profoundest recommendation, my dear! He probably does not make toast with his toes.
“People are utterly devoid of scruple about chits,” Mr. Browne went on, running over the dirty envelopes and long-folded half-sheets of letter-paper. “I’ve known men, who wouldn’t tell a lie under any other circumstances to—to save their souls, calmly sit down and write fervent recommendations of the most whopping blackguards, in the joyful moment of their deliverance, over their own names, perfectly regardless of the immorality of the thing. It’s a curious example of the way the natives’ desire to be obliging at any cost comes off on us. Now here’s a memsahib who ought to be ashamed of herself—‘Kali Bagh is a capital cook. His entrées are delicious, and he always sends up a joint done to perfection. His puddings are perhaps his best point, but his vegetables are quite French. I can thoroughly recommend him to anyone wanting a really first-rate chef.—Mary L. Johnson.’ Now we don’t want a chef, this man isn’t a chef, and Mary L. Johnson never had a chef. I knew the lady—she was the wife of Bob Johnson of the Jumna Bank—and they hadn’t a pice more to live on than we have! Chef—upon my word. And yet,” said young Browne thoughtfully, “I’ve had some very decent plain dinners at Bob Johnson’s.”
“But what’s the use of chits, George, if people don’t believe in them?”
“Oh, they do believe in ’em implicitly, till they find out the horrible mendacity of ’em. Then they rage about it and send the fellow off, with another excellent chit! And one would never engage a servant without chits, you know. You see how they value them—this man’s date back to ‘79. Here’s a break, two years ago.—What sahib’s cook were you two years ago, Bawarchi?” asked Mr. Browne.
“Exactly! I thought so, he paid a visit to his mulluk two years ago—that’s his own country. In other words, he got a bad chit from that sahib and was compelled to destroy it. They have always visited their mulluks under those circumstances, for the length of time corresponding to the break. But I guess he’ll do—we mustn’t expect too much. Twelve rupees.”
The cook took his chits back and salaamed. Helen looked as if she thought a great deal more might be desired in a cook, but could not bring herself to the point of discussing it in his immediate presence.