Driftwood Spars Part 25

Compensate me or know Yourself unjust."

To a servant or child who spoke so to me and with equal reason, I would reply:--

"Compensation is due to you and not 'forgiveness'--much less punishment," and I would act accordingly.... Why should I cringe to G.o.d--and why should He love a cringer more than I do?

G.o.d help Men and Women--and such Children as are doomed to grow up to be Men and Women.

As I finish this sentence I shall put my revolver in my mouth and seek Justice or Peace....

"Bad luck," murmured Mr. Robin Ross-Ellison, "that was the man of all men for me! A gentleman, wishful to die.... That is the sort that _does_ things when swords are out and bullets fly. Seeks a gory grave and gets a V.C. instead. He and Mike Malet-Marsac and I would have put a polish on the new Gungapur Fusiliers.... Rough luck...."

He was greatly disappointed, for his experiences in the bazaars, market-places, secret-meeting houses, and the bowers of Hearts'

Delights,--the Rialtos of Gungapur (he disguised, now as an Afghan horse-dealer, now as a sepoy, now as a Pathan money-lender, again as a gold-braided, velvet waistcoated, swaggering swashbuckler from the Border)--his experiences were disquieting, were such as to make him push on preparations, perfect plans, and work feverishly at the "polishing"

of his re-organized Corps.

Also the reports of his familiar, a Somali yclept Moussa Isa, were disquieting, disturbing to a lover of the Empire who foresaw the Empire at war in Europe.

Moussa Isa also knew that there was talk among Pathan horse-dealers and _budmashes_ of the coming of one Ilderim the Weeper, a mullah of great influence and renown, and talk, moreover, among men of other race, of a Great Conspiracy.

Moussa was bidden to take service as a mill-coolie in one of Colonel Dearman's mills, and to report on the views and att.i.tude of the thousands who laboured therein. This he did and there learnt many interesting facts.

-- 4. MR. AND MRS. CORNELIUS GOSLING-GREEN.

It was Sunday--and therefore John Bruce, the Engineering College Professor, was exceptionally busy. On a-week-day he only had to deliver his carefully prepared lectures, interview students, read and return essays, take the chair at meetings of college societies, coach one or two "specialists," superintend the games on the college gymkhana ground, interview seekers after truth and perverters of the same, write letters on various matters of college business, visit the hostel, set question papers and correct answers, attend common-room meetings, write articles for the college magazine and papers for the Scientific, Philosophical, Shakespearean, Mathematical, Debating, Literary, Historical, Students', Old Boys', or some other "union" and, if G.o.d willed, get a little exercise and private study at his beloved "subject" and invention, before preparing for the morrow.

On Sundays, the thousand and one things crowded out of the programme were to be cleared up, his home mail was to be written, and then arrears of work had to be attacked.

At four o'clock he addressed Roy Pittenweem and Mrs. MacDougall, his dogs, and said:--

"There's a bloomin' bun-s.n.a.t.c.h somewhere, you fellers, don't it?".

Though a Professor and one of the most keen and earnest workmen in India, his own college blazers were not quite worn out, and Life, the great Artist, had not yet done much sketching on the canvas of his face--in spite of his daily contact with the Science Professor, William Greatorex Bonnett, B.A., widely known as the Mad Hatter, the greatest of whose many great achievements is his avoidance of death at the hands of his colleagues and acquaintance.

Receiving no reply beyond a wink and a waggle, he dropped his blue pencil, rose, and went to the table sacred to litter; and from a wild welter of books, pipes, papers, golf-b.a.l.l.s, hats, cigar-boxes, dog-collars, switches, cartridges and other sediment, he extracted a large gilt-edged card and studied it without enthusiasm or bias.

"Large coat of arms," he murmured--"patience--no--a pay-sheet on a monument asking for time; item a hand, recently washed; ditto, a d.i.c.key bird--possibly pigeon plucked proper or gull argent; guinea-pig regardant and expectant; supporters, two bottliwallahs rampant. Crest, a b.u.m-boat flottant, and motto '_Cinq-cento-percentum_'. All done in gold.

Likewise in gold and deboshed gothic, the legend 'Sir and Lady Fuggilal Potipharpar, At Home. To meet Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius Gosling-Green, M.P.

Five p.m. C.T.' ... Now what the devil, Roy Pittenweem, _is_ C.T.? Is it 'Curious Time' or 'Cut for Trumps' or a new decoration for gutter plutocrats? It _might_ mean 'Calcutta Time,' mightn't it, as the egregious Phossy and his gang would have it? Well, we'll go and look upon the Cornmealious Gosling-Green, M.P.'s, and chasten our soul from sinful pride--ain't it, Mrs. MacDougall?" and the Professor strolled across to the Sports Club for a cup of tea.

In the midst of cheery converse with a non-moral and unphilosophic Professor of Moral Philosophy, a fat youth of the name of Augustus Grobble whose life was one long picturesque pose, he sprang to his feet, remarking: "I go, Augustus, I am bidden to behold some prize Gosling-Greens or something, at 5 p.m., D.V. or D.T. or C.T. or L.S.D.

or otherwise. Perhaps it was S.T. which means 'Standard Time,' and as I said, I go, Augustus."

Augustus Grobble was understood to return thanks piously....

"Taxi, Sahib?" inquired the messenger-boy at the door.

"Go to," said the Professor. "Also go call me a _tikka-gharri_[55] and select a _very_ senior horse, blind, angular, withered, wilted, and answering to the name, most obviously, of Skin-and-Grief--lest I be taken by the Grizzly-Goslings for a down-trodden plutocrat and a brother--and not seen for the fierce and 'aughty oppressor that I am."

[55] Public conveyance.

"Sahib?"

"_Tikka-gharri lao_,[56] you lazy little 'ound! Don't I speak plain English?" The Professor made it a practice to "rot" when not working--hoping thus even in India to retain sanity and the broad and wholesome outlook, for he was a very short-tempered person, easily roused to dangerous wrath.

[56] Bring.

A carriage, upholding a pony who, in return, spasmodically moved the carriage which gave evidence of having been where moths break through and steal, lumbered into the Club garden, and the Professor, imploring the jehu not to let the pony "die on him" in the Hibernian sense of the expression, gingerly entered.

"Convey me to the gilded Potipharparian 'alls, Arthur," said he.

"Sahib?"

"Why _don't_ you listen? _Palangur Hill ki pas_[57] And don't forget you've to get me there at 5 p.m. C.T. or S.T.--I leave it to you, partner."

[57] To.

On arrival, the Professor concluded that if he had arrived at 5 p.m.

C.T. he ought to have come at 5 p.m. S.T., or vice versa; as what he termed 'the show' was evidently about over. Fortune favours all sorts of people.

His hostess, who looked as though she had come straight out of the Bible _via_ Bond Street, and his host, who looked as though he had never come out of Petticoat Lane at all, both accused him of being unable to work out the problem of "Find Calcutta Time given the Standard Time," and he professed to be proud to be able to acknowledge the truth of the compliment.

"Come and be presented to Meester and Meesers Carneelius Garsling-Green, M.P.," said the lady, waddling before him; and her husband echoed:--

"Oah, yess. Come and be presented to Meester and Meesers Garsling-Green," waddling after him.

Mr. Cornelius Gosling-Green, M.P., proved to be a tall, drooping, melancholy creature, with "Dundreary" whiskers, reach-me-down suit of thick cloth, wrong kind of tie, thickish boots, and no presence. Without "form" and void.

Mrs. Cornelius Gosling-Green was a Severe Person, tiny, hard-featured and even more garrulous than her husband, who watched her anxiously and nervously as he answered any question put in her presence....

"And, oh, why, _why_ are not you Mohammedans _loyal_?" said Mrs.

Cornelius Gosling-Green, to a magnificent-looking specimen of the Mussulman of the old school--stately, venerable, courteous and honourable--who stood near, looking as though he wondered what the devil he was doing in that galley.

Turning from his friend, Mir Ilderim Dost Mahommed Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan, a fine Pathan, "Loyal, Madam! _Loyal_! Believe me we Mohammedans are most intensely and devotedly loyal," he replied. "You have indeed been misled. Though you are only spending a month in India for collecting the materials for your book or pamphlet, you must really learn _that_ much.

We Mohammedans are as loyal as the English themselves.--More loyal than some in fact," he added, with intent. The Pathan smiled meaningly.

"Ah, that's just it. I mean 'Why aren't you Mohammedans _loyal to poor India_?'"

The man turned and left the marquee and the garden without another word.

"Poor _bleeding_ India," corrected the Professor.

"And are _you_ a friend and worker for India?" continued the lady, turning to him and eyeing him with severity.

"I am. I do my humble possible in my obscure capacity, Mrs.

Grisly-Gosling," he replied. "I _beg_ your pardon, Mrs.