"Yes, sar, a peg will stimulate our hearts – thank you, kind gentleman; and his highness, the rajah, will thank you for saving me, for I am important artisan," his dead-blue eyes glinted.
"Come on, then!" he said, picking his way gingerly over the gravel.
Inside the bungalow, Swinton tossed his keys to the bearer, saying: "Bring – " He turned to Perreira: "What will you have, brandy or whisky?"
The half-caste smacked his bluish lips. "Any one is good, sar."
But Lall Mohun Dass interposed: "Salaam, my preserver, I am a man because of religious scruples teetotal, and whisky is convivial beverage; but brandy is medicinal, prescribed by doctor."
Swinton nodded to the bearer, and when the latter, unlocking the liquor cabinet, brought the brandy and glasses, he said: "Put it on the table and go." Then, at a suggestion, Perreira poured copious drafts for himself and Baboo Dass.
As the water of life scorched its way through the thin veins of the half-caste he underwent a metamorphosis. The face that had looked so pinched and blue grey with fear took on a warmer copper tint; his eyes that had been lustreless warmed till they glowed; his shoulders squared up; the jaran coat sagged less.
"Ah, sahib, you are kind gentleman." Without invitation, he dragged a chair to the table and sat down. At a nod from Swinton, the baboo drew up another. The captain and Lord Victor sat down, the latter rather puzzled over his companion's mood. He knew Swinton's rigid ideas about association with the natives; particularly what he called the "greasy Bengali baboo."
The brandy had quieted Mohun Dass' terror. His eyes that had constantly sought the open door with apprehension now hovered benignantly upon the bottle that still graced the centre of the table.
"Yes, sar, kind gentleman," Perreira said; "if I'd had a hooker of brandy like that and a gun like that 'Certus Cordite'" – he pointed to the weapon Swinton had deposited on the floor – "I would go out and blow that fool tiger to hell."
Baboo Dass gave a fatty laugh. "Do not believe him, kind gentlemans – he make ungodly boast; he was crawled under the bed."
"And you, baboo?" Perreira questioned. "Major sahib – "
"I am not a major," Swinton corrected; "we are just two Englishmen who have come out here for some shooting."
This statement had a curious effect on Mohun Dass. All his class stood in awe of the military, but toward the globe-trotting, sporting Englishman they could hardly conceal their natural arrogance. A look of assured familiarity crept into his fat countenance; he showed his white teeth with the little, reddish lines between them, due to pan chewing. "You are globe-trotter gentlemans – I know. Will you writing book, too?"
The captain nodded.
"You will get Forbes Hindustani dictionary and spell bungalow 'bangla,' and the book will stink like the lamp because of academic propensity. Never mind, kind gentleman, the publics will think you know about India and caste, too."
The captain noting Perreira's eyes devouring the bottle shoved it toward the half-caste. Gilfain, with a sigh of not understanding, rose, went along to their rooms, and returned with slippers and some cheroots.
Perreira had helped himself and the baboo to another generous drink, the latter protesting weakly.
"I see you know about guns, Perreira," Swinton said, lifting the rifle to his knee. "How do you happen to know this is a Cordite?"
"Cordite? Ha, ha!" And the half-caste's cackle was a triumphant note. He put a pair of attenuated fingers into the top pocket of his jaran coat and drew from beneath a very dirty handkerchief a lump of something that resembled an unbaked biscuit. He flipped it to the table as though he were tossing a box of cigarettes. "Yes, sars, that is cordite – dynamite, whatever you like to call him."
"Good God! I say, you silly ass!" And Lord Victor, pushing back his chair, stood up.
Baboo Dass, who had been sitting with his feet curled up under his fat thighs, tumbled from the chair, and, standing back from the table, cried: "Mera bap! Tigers eating and explosives producing eruption of death. O Kuda, my poor families!"
Swinton checked an involuntary movement of retreat, and the compelling void of his eyes drew from the half-caste an explanation:
"Take seat, kind gentlemans and Baboo Lall Mohun Dass. This thing is innocent as baby of explosion. It is cordite not yet finish. I was in the government cordite factory here in – " He checked, looked over his shoulder toward the front door, and then continued: "Yes, sar, I was gov'ment expert man to mix cordite. If you don't believe, listen, gentlemans. Cordite is fifty-eight parts nitroglycerin, thirty-seven parts guncotton, five parts mineral jelly, and, of course, acetone is used as solvent. Now all that is mix by hand, and while these parts explode like hell when separate, when they are mix they are no harm. And I was expert for mixing. I am expert on smokeless powder and all kinds of guns because I am home in England working for Curtis & Harper Co. in their factory. That why Rajah Darpore engage me."
Swinton's eyes twitched three times, but he gave no other sign.
Baboo Dass drew himself into the conversation. "This mans, Perreira, been at school in Howrah with me, but I am now B. A., and trusted head krannie for Hamilton Company, jewel – "
With a gasp he stopped and thrust a hand under his jacket; then explained: "Sahib, I forgetting something because of strict attention to tiger business. You are honourable gentleman who has save my life, so I will show the satanic thing, and you can write story about some ghost jewels."
He unclasped from his neck a heavy platinum chain, and, first casting a furtive glance toward the door, drew forth a pear-shaped casket of the same metal, saying: "You see, sar, not so glorified in splendour as to seduce thieves, but inside is marvel of thing."
He thrust the casket toward Swinton, and laughed in toper glee when the captain explored vainly its smooth shell for a manner of opening it. "Allow me, sar," and, Baboo Dass touching some hidden mechanism, the shell opened like a pea pod, exposing to the startled captain's eyes an exact mate to the sapphire Finnerty had lost.
Lord Victor, his unschooled eyes popping like a lobster's, began: "Oh, I say – " Then he broke off with a yelp of pain, for Swinton's heel had all but smashed his big toe beneath the table.
"I am bringing for the maharajah," Baboo Dass explained. "The old boy is gourmand for articles of vertu."
"Articles of virtue!" And Perreira leered foolishly. "Prince Ananda is the Johnnie to collect articles of virtue; he imports from Europe."
"Mr. Perreira is gay young dog!" Baboo Daas leaned heavily across the table. "Perhaps Shazada Ananda is in big hurry to sit on the throne."
"There's always a woman at the bottom of these things, sir," and Perreira twisted his eyes into an owllike look of wisdom.
"You see, sar," the baboo elucidated, "Prince Ananda has give this to the maharajah, and it is accursed agent of evil; because of it I am nearly eated of a tiger."
On the sapphire was the same inscription Swinton had seen on the stolen stone.
"That is Persian characters, sahib," Baboo Dass declared ponderously. "It is used for 'mine,' but in learned way madun is proper name for mine, and Rikaz, this word, means buried treasure. I am learned in dead languages – Sanskrit, Pali. It is sacred stone. If you possessing patience, sahib, I will narrative obscure histories of Buddhism."
"Oh,
