“No,” said Mr. Sayter, “it’s the perverseness of the Anglo-Indian. He thinks if he talks about the beauties of Ind the Secretary of State will cut his pay.”
“And yet,” said Mr. Batcham, tucking his napkin into his capacious waistcoat, “the average public official in this country seems to me to be pretty fairly remunerated.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Mr. Sayter confidentially, looking up from his soup, “they’re grossly overpaid. They live in luxury. I am one of them. I live in luxury. I have a servant to put on my boots. In England what action should I be obliged to take in regard to my boots? I should be obliged to put them on myself! And for the misfortune of living in a country where I get my boots put on, I’m paid twice as much as I would be in England, and three times as much as I’m worth. Monstrous, isn’t it?”
Mr. Batcham smiled a benign smile of approbation. “I assure you, sir, that is not the way the situation has been represented to me thus far. I hope that before I leave India I may meet other gentlemen who like yourself have the moral rectitude to rise above mere considerations of gain—I may say of plunder—and state the case frankly as it is. With regard to yourself I have no doubt you exaggerate, but I will tell you candidly that I have myself for some time held the same opinion precisely with regard to—with regard to—”
“The Indian services generally. Exactly,” responded Mr. Sayter, “and when you get home you mean to bring it under the consideration of Lord Kimberley. Quite so. I wouldn’t be too sanguine about popularising your view among the Europeans out here—the Anglo-Indian is a sordid person—but all the baboos will be very pleased. You will of course endeavour to extend the employment of baboos in the higher branches of the Covenanted service—the judicial and administrative. They come much cheaper, and their feelings are very deeply hurt at being overlooked in favour of the alien Englishman. You could get an excellent baboo for any purpose on earth for thirty rupees a month. And yet,” continued Mr. Sayter absently, “they pay me two thousand.”
Mr. Batcham looked reflective, and young Browne said, “Cheap and nasty.”
“Oh, dear no!” remarked Mr. Sayter, “A nice fat wholesome baboo who could write a beautiful hand—probably a graduate of the Calcutta University. Talking of universities reminds me to add, Mr. Batcham, that the university baboo is not quite so cheap as he used to be. He is still very plentiful and very inexpensive, but his price is going up since the new regulations.”
“Regulations!” said Mr. Batcham. “You people will regulate these unfortunate natives off the face of the earth.”
“We should love to,” replied Mr. Sayter, “but we can’t. You have no idea of their rate of multiplication. These particular regulations were a frightful blow to the baboo.”
“May I ask their nature?” Mr. Batcham inquired.