"I say, that's bad; can't you take a pull at yourself?"

"Too late now."

"Nothing's too late," declared Shafto; "believe that and buck up.

Well, here are four rupees for you."

As he put them into a shaking hand the match went out, and the loafer noiselessly melted away into the soft and impenetrable darkness.

Next morning Shafto informed Roscoe of this strange encounter.

"Such a water-logged derelict was never seen! One of your underworld friends, I take it?"

"Worse than that," rejoined Roscoe; "he's my own first cousin."

In reply to Shafto's exclamation he added: "His father was the officer I told you about, who was so terribly worried by the plays. This chap was erratic, but a clever fellow and great at languages; he pa.s.sed into the Woods and Forests out here, and enjoyed the wild jungle life for a good many years; now you see what he is--a wild man of the bazaars."

"But I say, Roscoe; can you do nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing; a cocaine case is hopeless. Opium you might tackle; the other is beyond the power of man or woman."

"But how does the fellow live?"'

"G.o.d knows!" replied Roscoe. "Most of these chaps keep body and soul together by stealing; there's a lot of smuggling going on in Burma, and I shouldn't be the least surprised if my cousin Richard had a hand in that!"

CHAPTER XVI

MR. AND MRS. ABEL SALTER

Shafto had been six weeks in Rangoon and, thanks to his chums, was beginning to feel completely at home--as is sometimes the case with adaptable young people in a strange and fascinating country.

His neighbours, the Salters, who were hospitable and friendly, had lent him a hand to find his bearings. Occasionally, of an evening, he and Roscoe would stroll over there after dinner, and sit in the deep veranda discussing many matters with the master of the house. Roscoe and Salter were more nearly of an age, and mutually interested in subjects that to Shafto seemed deadly dull and obscure. He liked to hear about sport, the country, and the Burmese; to all such topics he was an eager and ready listener, but when philosophy and sociology were on the tapis he would join Mrs. Salter indoors, to discuss the paddy crop, inspect her great rice bins, and argue over prices and sales; or he would listen to blood-curdling tales about _nats_, or house spirits, related by his hostess in animated, broken English, and with appropriate gesticulations. Mee Lay had a high opinion of the young man, and this was shared by her daughter, for "Shaft," as she called him, helped her to fly her kite, mended broken toys and brought her chocolates such as her soul loved.

During one of their prowling expeditions Roscoe had imparted the life-history of Salter to his chum. Salter's forbears were Yorkshire folk--thrifty, self-respecting, stiff-backed Nonconformists. His father and grandfather belonged to what is called "the old school,"

when parents ruled their families with an iron rod, and the meek, down-trodden children accepted punishment without question. Salter's grandmother had dismissed grown-up sons from table and kept a rebellious daughter for weeks incarcerated in her room. Salter's father had inherited her stern, Spartan spirit; he gave his heir a first-cla.s.s education in the neighbourhood of London and, when he was twenty, recalled him to Bradford, there to take his place in the works and live at home. But Salter, junior, having tasted the delights of liberty, found home life unspeakably irksome; the laws against drink, dancing, smoking and the theatre were Draconic. He hated the long chapel service on Sunday, the endless hymns and emotional exhortations; the day concluding with family worship, which lasted three-quarters of an hour. The young fellow dreaded the Sabbath and rebelled against his gloomy, comfortable, middle-cla.s.s home, where he had no individuality, no rights--and no latch-key! At last he broke loose--the flesh and blood of twenty-two years old revolted. At twelve o'clock one night he found himself locked out and, as the first bold peal of the bell elicited no reply, he never again applied for admittance, but with four pounds in his pockets and a good saleable watch, launched his little skiff upon the great, wide world.

Behold him now comfortably established in a foreign land, occupying a responsible position in a well-known firm, the husband of a clever, thrifty woman, who was actively engaged in building up his fortune.

After an interval of some years, the Salters at home discovered that their prodigal had undoubtedly killed and thriven on his own fatted calf. The usual little bird had informed them that "Abel was much thought of and prosperous; had a grand home in Rangoon, dozens of servants, and was married." Friendly letters were dispatched--for "Nothing succeeds like success"--and a brisk correspondence ensued.

Information and photographs were promptly exchanged, and the family received a nicely-finished presentment of Rosetta in her smartest and shortest frock. They were much impressed by the grandchild born to them in Burma, and she was immediately installed in a handsome silver frame, introduced to all their neighbours and to most of their chapel friends.

But what would have been the sensation of these worthy people if they had received a portrait of Mee Lay in full festival costume--flowers in hair and white cheroot in hand!

On the subject of Mrs. Abel Salter there was but scanty information; her old maid sisters-in-law were given to understand that she sent them her best good-wishes--she also forwarded silks and jars of Burmese condiments, but her husband declared that she was very lazy about letter-writing and const.i.tutionally shy. Her maiden name, they were told, had been Mary Lee, and this information had sufficed.

Besides having the entree to the Salters' domestic circle, Shafto had been elected a member of the Gymkhana Club, where he made various new acquaintances--and these increased in number as his prowess in tennis and cricket became evident; then, with the advice--and, indeed, almost under the compulsion--of FitzGerald, he purchased a smart stud-bred mare, certainly no longer in her first youth, but sound, clever and full of "go." She was not called upon to shine on a race-course, but carried her master admirably in Station paper-chases on Thursday afternoons.

By the MacNab this investment was looked upon with a dubious and unfavourable eye, although he was aware that the price of "Moonshine"

had come out of a small nest-egg which her owner had brought from home.

He pointed out the enormous price of gram, or English oats, and he earnestly entreated Shafto "not to be led into follies by other people"

(meaning FitzGerald), "but to keep his head and go slow."

During this month of November Shafto had frequently come across his fellow-pa.s.sengers in the _Blankshire_; even Lady Puffle had acknowledged his existence with a bow; not once had he beheld the desire of his eyes--Miss Leigh. She appeared to have vanished as completely as a summer mist and, it was whispered, had been swallowed up and submerged by the German colony.

Mrs. Krauss had vouchsafed no notice of his visit and card; her niece was never to be seen either at the Gymkhana, or on the lakes--the princ.i.p.al meeting-places for young and old. More than once he imagined that he had caught sight of her in the cathedral at evening service, but she looked so different in smart Sunday clothes--a feathered hat and gauzy gown--that he might have been mistaken, and he heard from MacNab (the gossip of the chummery) that Krauss had brought forward a remarkably pretty niece, who had recently played in a concert at the German Club, and made a sensational success.

When Shafto rode in the mornings, he eyed expectantly every pa.s.sing or approaching habit, but Sophy Leigh was never among the early cavalcade--for the excellent reason that she had no horse.

Mrs. Gregory, in spite of multifarious occupations as the firm's vice-reine, had by no means forgotten pretty Miss Leigh, nor her cousin's emphatic instructions; the girl had failed to accompany her to the Gymkhana dance--"her aunt was ill; she had been unable to leave her"--a stereotyped excuse to every invitation. The truth was that Mrs. Krauss, after two or three social efforts, culminating in a large dinner-party to her German neighbours, had collapsed with one of her worst attacks, and between nursing her relative and housekeeping for Herr Krauss (who was shamelessly greedy and exacting), Sophy had not a moment to spare, and the Madras boy turned away all callers--including Miss Leigh's friends--with his mechanical parrot cry, "Missis can't see!"

CHAPTER XVII

AT THE PLAY

Theatrical performances are the chief entertainment in Burma; the Burmese as a nation delight in plays--operatic, tragic, opera bouffe and ballets, such as the "Han Pwe," when a number of young girls, all dressed as royalties, posture and dance with extreme grace; and as their training is perfect, the entertainment evokes unqualified applause. So interested and absorbed do the audience become in long drawn-out dramatic performances, with interludes of dancing and singing, that they will bring their bedding, and not merely remain all night but several nights--according as the play may hold them! As a rule, the background is a palace, and the plot concerns the love story of a prince and princess, which is interrupted by all manner of vicissitudes--some grotesque, others of genuine pathos; to these the accompaniment of soft, wailing Burmese music is admirably adapted.

Po Sine, the greatest actor in Burma--an Eastern "star"--had recently returned to Rangoon from a prolonged tour, and his admirers, who numbered thousands, were all agog to see and welcome him.

The princ.i.p.al theatre was established in a large s.p.a.ce at the back of the Great PaG.o.da, trustfully open to the soft blue night, otherwise strictly encompa.s.sed with matting; for in these changed and money-making days, there was an official box-office at the entrance and no admittance without cash payment! The stage was only raised a foot or two from the ground, and a long row of little lamps threw a becoming red light upon the scene. Here many rows of chairs were arranged for the use of Europeans, whilst the Easterns sat upon the ground on mats and folded themselves up in easy native fashion.

On the first night of Po Sine's reappearance, the arena was packed to the utmost limit of the matting. In the front were a.s.sembled many European residents, who were treated to bunches of flowers, paper fans, cheroots and lemonade; also, in a reserved s.p.a.ce and on gorgeous rugs, reclined a number of splendidly attired and bejewelled Burmese ladies--princesses of the Royal house, a sprightly and animated group; their flashing diamond combs and long diamond chains made a feature amid the audience.

Mrs. Gregory had brought a small party, which included Mena Pomeroy, Robin Close--one of the a.s.sistants--and Douglas Shafto, who had never yet seen the famous Po Sine. Somehow Miss Pomeroy and Mr. Close had contrived to get separated from their chaperon, but Shafto still stuck faithfully to his hostess.

A puppet play represented the curtain-raiser, and as this, to Shafto, was no novelty, he stared about him at the ma.s.ses of shining black heads; men with jaunty silk handkerchiefs twisted round their brows, women with their wreaths and golden combs--an undeniably smart audience--all smoking. The stage was open to the dark blue sky, which was sprinkled with stars. Right above them clanged a temple gong; from far down the river came the hoot of a steamer's syren, and during intervals the soft humming of the wind among the labyrinth of shrines--a complete contrast in every respect was this Eastern scene to the last play he had witnessed in a London theatre!

All at once there was an influx of people surging in--crafty folk who knew how to avoid the curtain-raiser. These included a number of Germans. Among the party in the train of Mrs. Muller, and attended by Herr Bernhard, was Miss Leigh in a dainty white frock and flower-trimmed hat, but somehow looking a little bit out of the picture. Her chaperon, magnificent in a Viennese toilet, unexpectedly encountered friends who had recently arrived from the Fatherland; these she hailed with boisterous jubilation, and as she chattered and gesticulated, listened and interrupted, she entirely forgot her charge; in fact, she moved on, still talking, and abandoned her, so to speak, to her fate.

Sophy's fate, luckily for her, happened to be Mrs. Gregory, who signed to Shafto to rescue the young lady and conduct her to a place under her own wing.

"How are you?" he said, accosting her eagerly. "Mrs. Gregory has sent me to ask if you won't sit by her? There is lots of room."

"I should love to, but you see I am here officially with Mrs. Muller.

I'll go and speak to her, but I think she has filled my seat."

A hasty word to the chaperon, who had entirely forgotten her existence, released Sophy and, as she joined Mrs. Gregory, Frau Muller said with a shrug:

"Oh yes, she is rather pretty in her way. She has got among those odious English--let her stay with them!"

(Then she threw herself once more into the interesting topic of the latest scandal in Frankfort.)

"I am so pleased to see you," said Mrs. Gregory, making room for Sophy beside her; "what has become of you all these weeks?"

"Oh, I have been in Kokine and quite safe," she answered, but her smile was not so ready and whole-hearted as it had been on board ship. "Aunt Flora caught a chill and has been laid up. Poor dear, she is a martyr to neuralgia."