CHAPTER VILATE FOR MESS
Thebungalow occupied by Captain Gascoigne and his friend was one of the largest in Ramghur. Sixty years previously, it had been the residence of the general commanding the district, and now it was let to a couple of bachelors, at the miserable rental of thirty rupees a month, for it happened to be deplorably out of repair, inconveniently out of the way, and enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. This unfortunate habitation stood in a spacious compound, whose limits were absorbed in the surrounding terra-cotta coloured plain, covered with yawning fissures, and tufts of bleached grass. A few mango trees, guava trees, and a dry well, indicated the remains of a once celebrated garden, whilst under the tamarinds were three or four weather-worn tombs, the resting-place of Mahomedan warriors, who had been buried on the battlefield long before the days of the English Raj.
An imposing range of servants' quarters (at present crowded, as the retinue harboured all their relations, as well as lodgers) and a long line of stables testified to the former importance of this tumble-down abode, whose big reception-rooms, once the heart of social life, were now filled with boxes, empty packing-cases, saddlery, and polo sticks, and were the resort of white ants, roof cats, and scorpions.
The present tenants had naturally selected the most weather-tight quarters, and these were in opposite ends of the venerable residence. As Gascoigne came whirling through the entrance gate, he was waylaid by three dogs, a fox-terrier, an Irish terrier, and a nondescript hound, and it was immediately evident that he belonged to them, from their yelps of hearty welcome, and the manner in which all three scuttled up the drive in the wake of Sally Lunn.
As the cart stopped, and the syce sprang down, Shafto appeared in the verandah. He wore the usual hot-weather mess dress, spotless white linen, and a coloured silk cummerband, and looked strikingly handsome as he stood bare-headed in the moonlight, gravely contemplating his comrade.
"Upon my soul, Phil, I began to think the brute had smashed you up at last! I've been sitting here listening hard for twenty minutes, precisely as if I were your anxious grandmother. I know Sally's trot half a mile away. What kept you?"
"Down dogs, down," cried their master, as he descended. "I had no notion it was so late, and for a drive, this is the best time of the whole day."
"Whole night you mean," corrected Shafto; "it's half-past eight—where have you been? Sally looks as if she had had enough for once."
"She's had about twenty-two miles," admitted her owner, now taking off his cap and subsiding into one of the two long chairs which furnished the verandah. "The Lucknow road is like a billiard table, and we made our own wind."
"We?" ejaculated his listener.
"Yes, I took that child Angel from next door; itwas a rare treat for the poor little beggar, and she coaxed me to go on mile after mile."
"Oh, did she! Well, as long as she is only the angel next door I don't mind," said Shafto, tossing away the stump of a cigarette; "an angel in the house, I bar. This establishment is already the home of rest for lost dogs"—pointing to the trio—"ill-used ekka ponies, and a lame bullock. Don't, for God's sake, bring in a child."
"You need not alarm yourself," said his friend composedly. "I should not know what to do with her. The animals, at least, are grown up."
"And so is Angel—as old-fashioned as they make 'em. By the way, I forgot to ask you what she wanted yesterday?"
"Nothing," replied Gascoigne, stretching out his arms. "I say—Sally can pull—only to tell me that she was rather down on her luck."
"Not much luck to be down on, eh?" sneered his listener. "What with a smart mamma, a saving step-papa, and a squad of greedy little Wilkinsons, she must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her father's people don't do something."
"Here you are," cried Gascoigne. "I am her father's cousin."
"Well, I won't permit you to interfere, or take her in; by Jove, no," said Shafto, springing to his feet. "Charity does not begin at this home. They say that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is a cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat."
"Poor mite! Can't 'they' let even a child alone? They must be short of subjects."
"You allude to the station gossips, and no doubttimes are bad—so many of their 'cases' are in the hills. Personally, I don't care for little girls with wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate."
"I know you don't," assented the other promptly. "Youprefer well-grown young women with seductive black orbs and a craving for sympathy."
"Bosh! There's the mess bugle. You take half-an-hour to tub and change; you'll be late for dinner."
"Oh, I'll get something when I go over."
"Here," said Shafto, motioning to a syce to bring up his pony. Then, turning to his comrade, "You are a rum customer. Harder than nails, yet soft as putty in some ways."
"Oh, not as soft as Billy Shafto," he protested with a laugh.
"Yes. If a fellow is in a scrape—Gascoigne. Duty to do—Gascoigne. For the sick and afflicted—Gascoigne. Dinnerless to humour a child—Gascoigne." Whilst he spoke he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted, and as he wheeled about he gave a view hulloa, shouted "Vive Gascoigne!" and galloped down the avenueventre à terre. For a moment Gascoigne and the dogs sat staring at the cloud of dust the pony's hoofs had raised behind him, and then the three animals gathered round to have a word or two with their master.
Each of these waifs had a history of his own. Train, the fox-terrier, was found in the railway station, a lost, distracted dog, evidently a stranger in a strange land, for he did not understand a word of Hindustani, and he shrank appalled from the blandishments of the Telegraph Baboo. He was middle-aged, English, and a gentleman. What was his past?Gunner, an Irish terrier, possibly country-born, had been left behind by a battery of artillery, suddenly ordered up country, and for weeks he had haunted their lines, heart-broken and starving; even now he constantly called at his old quarters, to see iftheyhad come back?
Toko was a stray, brought in, in an emaciated condition, by the two others, and was believed to have been the property of a man who had died of cholera the previous rains. These three casuals were now beyond the reach of want, and were well looked after. They employed a dog boy, whose duty it was to wash, feed, and exercise them; but they were fiercely independent, and objected to going out for a walk at the end of a chain, merely to be tied up, whilst their attendant gambolled behind a wall with various other urchins. When not enjoying a scamper with their master they took themselves out with great decorum, and it was a funny sight to meet the three strolling leisurely along, precisely like their superiors, or cantering across the maidan almost abreast. Naturally, their friends and foes were identical, and it was a truly brave dog who dared to raise his bristles at the trio. They had their various individual tastes, and Train and Toko secretly felt that it was a pity to see a dog of Gunner's age and size so passionately addicted to chasing sparrows.
Gascoigne and the trio sat in the moonlight in front of the old bungalow, silently enjoying one another's society, till a neighbouring gurra, striking nine, warned Gascoigne that it was time to dress and dine. All the same he was not in the least hungry, and only for the susceptibilities of his bearer,—whowas an abject slave to convention, and would have considered his conduct erratic and peculiar,—he would gladly have remained sitting in the verandah with his three dumb friends. Gascoigne's drive with Angel had resulted in a paradox—it had effectively taken away his appetite, and supplied him with food for reflection. Poor little neglected ne'er-do-well! What was to be her fate?