"Well, well," said the superintendent, with a quizzical look; "you'll see him again. Come along."

Desmond accompanied Mr. Johnson on sh.o.r.e. A crowd had gathered. There were sepoys in turban, cabay,[#] and baggy drawers; bearded Arabs; Parsis in their square brimless hats; and a various a.s.sortment of habitues of the sh.o.r.e--crimps, landsharks, badmashes,[#] bunder[#]

gangs. Seeing Desmond hold his nose at the all-prevailing stench of fish Mr. Johnson laughed.

[#] Cloak.

[#] Rowdy characters.

[#] Port.

"You'll soon get used to that," he said. "'Tis all fish-oil and b.u.mmaloes[#] in Bombay."

[#] Small fish the size of smelt, known when dried as "Bombay duck."

Having sent a trustworthy crew on board the Tremukji, the superintendent led Desmond to his house near the docks. Here, while a native barber plied his dexterous razor on Desmond's cheeks and chin, Mr. Johnson searched through a miscellaneous h.o.a.rd of clothes in one of his capacious presses for an outfit. He found garments that proved a reasonable fit, and Desmond, while dressing, gave a rapid sketch of his adventures since he left the prison-shed in Gheria.

"My wigs, but you've had a time of it. Mutiny and all! Dash my b.u.t.tons, here's a tale for the ladies! Let me look at you. Yes, you'll do now, and faith you're a pretty fellow. And d.i.c.k Burke's son! You've got his nose to a T; no nonsense about that. Now you're ready to make your bow to Mr. Bourchier. He's been a coursing match with Colonel Clive and Mr. Watson[#] up Malabar Hill, and we'll catch him before he sits down to supper. How do you feel inside, by the way? Ready for a decent meal after the Pirate's hog's wash, eh?"

[#] It was customary to use the t.i.tle Mr. in speaking to or of both naval and military officers.

"I'm quite comfortable inside," said Desmond smiling, "but, to tell you the truth, Mr. Johnson, I feel mighty uneasy outside. After six months of the dhoti these breeches and things seem just like bandages."

"It en't the first time you've been swaddled, if you had a mother. Well now, if you're ready. What! That rascal gashed you? Tuts! 'tis a scratch. Can't wait to doctor that. Come on."

The two made their way into the fort enclosure, and walked rapidly to Government House in the centre. In answer to Mr. Johnson the darwan[#]

at the door said that the Governor would not return that night. After the coursing match he was giving a supper party at his country house at Parel.

[#] Doorkeeper.

"That's a nuisance. But we can't have any nonsense. The Governor's a bit of an autocrat; too much starch in his shirt, I say; but we'll go out to Parel and beard him, by Jove! 'Tis only five miles out, and we'll drive there in under an hour."

Turning away he hurried out past the tank-house on to the Green, and by good luck found an empty shigram[#] waiting to be hired. Desmond mounted the vehicle with no little curiosity. These great beasts with their strange humps would surely not cover five miles in less than an hour. But he was undeceived when they started. The two st.u.r.dy oxen trotted along at a good pace in obedience to the driver's goad, and the shigram rattled across Bombay Green, past the church and the whitewashed houses of the English merchants, their oyster-sh.e.l.l windows already lit up; and in some forty-five minutes entered a long avenue leading to Mr.

Bourchier's country house. Twice during the course of the journey Desmond was interested to see the shigramwallah[#] pull his team up, dismount, and, going to their heads, insert his hand in their mouths.

[#] Carriage like a palanquin on wheels.

[#] Wallah is a personal affix, denoting a close connexion between the person and the thing described by the main word. Shigramwallah thus=carriage-driver.

"What does he do that for?" he asked.

"To clear their throats, to be sure. When the beasts go at this pace they make a terrible lot of foam, and if he didn't swab it out they'd choke, and no nonsense. Well, here we are. Dash my wig, won't his Excellency open his eyes!"

Since their departure from the fort the sky had become quite dark. At the end of the avenue they could see the lights of Governor Bourchier's bungalow, and by and by caught sight of figures sitting on the veranda.

Desmond's heart beat high; he made no doubt that one of them was Clive; the moment to which he had looked forward so eagerly was at last at hand. He was in no dreamland; his dream had come true. He felt a little nervous at the prospect of meeting men so famous, so immeasurably above him, as Clive and Admiral Watson; but with Clive he felt a bond of union in his birthplace, and it was with recovered confidence that he sprang out of the cart and accompanied Mr. Johnson to the bungalow. He was further rea.s.sured by a jolly laugh that rang out just as he reached the steps leading up to the veranda.

"Hallo, Johnson!" said a voice, "what does this mean?"

"I've come to see the Governor, Captain."

"Then you couldn't have come at a worse time. The supper's half an hour late, and you know what that means to the Governor."

Mr. Johnson smiled.

"He'll forget his supper when he has heard my news. 'Tis about the Pirate."

"What's that?" said another voice. "News of the Pirate?"

"Yes, Mr. Watson. This young gentleman----"

But he was interrupted by the khansaman,[#] who came out at this moment and with a salaam announced that supper was served.

[#] Butler.

"You'd better come in, Johnson," said the first speaker. "Any news of the Pirate will be sauce to Mr. Bourchier's goose."

The gentlemen rose from their seats, and went into the house, followed by Desmond and the superintendent. In a moment Desmond found himself in a large room brilliantly lighted with candles. In the centre was a round table, and Mr. Bourchier, the Governor, was placing his guests.

He did not look very pleasant, and when he saw Mr. Johnson he said:

"You come at a somewhat unseasonable hour, sir. Cannot your business wait till the morning?"

"I made bold to come, your Excellency, because 'tis a piece of news the like of which no one in Bombay has ever heard before. This young gentleman, Mr. Desmond Burke, son of Captain Burke, whom you'll remember, sir, has escaped from Gheria."

The Governor and his guests were by this time seated, and instantly all eyes were focussed on Desmond, and exclamations of astonishment broke from their lips.

"Indeed! Bring chairs, Hossain."

One of the native attendants left the room noiselessly, and returning with chairs placed them at the table.

"Sit down, gentlemen. That is amazing news, as you say, Mr. Johnson.

Perhaps Mr. Burke will relate his adventure as we eat."

Desmond took the chair set for him. The guests were five. Two of them wore the laced coats of admirals; the taller, a man of handsome presence, with a round chubby face, large eyes, small full lips, his head crowned by a neat curled wig, was Charles Watson, in command of the British fleet; the other was his second, Rear-Admiral Poc.o.c.k. A third was Richard King, captain of an Indiaman, in a blue coat with velvet lappets and gold embroidery, buff waistcoat and breeches. Next him sat a jolly red-faced gentleman in plain attire, and between him and the Governor was Clive himself, whose striking face--the lawyer's brow, the warrior's nose and chin, the dreamer's mouth--would have marked him out in any company.

Desmond began his story. The barefooted attendants moved quietly about with the dishes, but the food was almost neglected as the six gentlemen listened to the clear, low voice telling of the escape from the fort, the capture of the grab, and the eventful voyage to Bombay harbour.

"By George! 'tis a famous adventure," exclaimed Admiral Watson, when the story was ended. "What about this Pirate's den? Gheria fort is said to be impregnable; what are the chances if we attack, eh? The approaches to the harbour, now; do you know the depth of water?"