"I can so, as one of my subordinates; I am looking for evidence in a murder case; I'll lend you a coat, and all you will have to do is to look wise and hold your tongue."

"This is most awfully good of you," exclaimed Shafto, "and I needn't tell you I'll go like a shot."

"Oh, I'm good now, am I?" jeered FitzGerald; "but, joking apart, this will be an experience. Not like puppet plays and dances--but a black tragedy."

"Yes, I suppose so; I know it's pretty awful."

"Cocaine smuggling is playing the very devil with the country and there's no denying that."

"But can't you do something to stop it?"

"Is it stop it? You might just as well try to stop the Irrawaddy with a pitchfork. And it's growing worse; there are some big people in it--the Hidden Hand Company--who keep out of sight, pay the money, employ the tools and collar the swag. They have agents all over this province, as well as India, China and the Straits."

"Where does the stuff come from?"

"It's chiefly manufactured in Germany, though some comes from England."

"What, you don't mean that! I always thought it was concocted out here."

"'Tis little ye know! It is mostly sent in from Hamburg, and in all manner of clever ways; the smugglers are as cute as foxes and up to every mortal dodge. A lot of the contraband is done by native crews, of course without the knowledge of the ships' officers. Hydrochloride of cocaine travels in strong paper envelopes between fragile goods, or in larger quant.i.ties in false bottoms of boxes, under plates in the engine room, or in the bulkheads."

"But how can they possibly land the stuff?" inquired Shafto.

"Easier than you think! There are lots of nice, lonely, sequestered coves, where goods can be put ash.o.r.e of a dark night, or dropped carefully overboard, hermetically sealed, with an empty tin canister as a float, and picked up at daybreak by a friendly sampan. Of course, the customs house officers have to be reckoned with from the moment a ship enters till she leaves the port, but sometimes in this drowsy climate a man falls asleep in his long chair, and here is the _serang's_ chance--the _serang_ being the head and leader of the crew.

The contraband is quickly lowered in gunny bags to the sampans and carried off in triumph to its destination. However, not long ago, the customs made a haul of twelve hundred ounces; out here cocaine sells for six pounds an ounce. So that was a nice little loss, and yet only a drop in the ocean--for every grain that is seized a pound enters the market. Oh, I'd make my fortune if I could run one of these foxes to earth."

"I wish you could," said Shafto; "have you no clue, no suspicions?"

"Hundreds of suspicions, but no clue. There's a fellow in a sampan who unnecessarily hoists a white umbrella--I have my best eye on him; and there is said to be a broken-down, past-mending motor-launch in a creek beyond Kemmendine, which I propose, when I have a chance, to overhaul on the quiet. Chinese steamers plying between j.a.pan and Rangoon run stacks of contraband; as soon as one method of landing is discovered they find another; their ingenuity is really interesting to watch. The chief smugglers are never caught--only their satellites, who get about four months' gaol and never blow the gaff. If they did I wouldn't give much for their lives."

"Do you mean to tell me that their employers wouldn't stick at murder?"

cried Shafto aghast.

"They stick at nothing; a murder done second-hand is quite cheap and easy--just a stab with a _dah_, or long knife, and the body flung into the Irrawaddy; you know the pace of that racing current and how it tells no tales! Well, here we are! You see, for once I can discourse of other things than horses; and, talking of horses, these fellows had better have a bran-mash apiece; but once you get me on cocaine smuggling, I warn you I can jaw till my mouth's as dry as a lime-kiln."

CHAPTER XX

THE PONGYE

Late one warm afternoon in January, when Shafto was unusually busy on the PaG.o.da wharf--consignments of paddy were coming in thick and fast--suddenly, above the din of steam winches and donkey engines, there arose a great shouting, and he beheld an immense cloud of white dust rolling rapidly in his direction.

"Look out, it's a runaway!" roared a neighbouring worker. "By George, they'll all be in the river!"

Sure enough, there came a rattle-trap hack _gharry_ at the heels of a pair of galloping ponies. The reins were broken, a yelling soldier sat helpless on the driver's seat and several of his comrades were inside the rocking vehicle. The animals, maddened with fear, were making straight for the Irrawaddy and, as Shafto rushed forward with outstretched arms to head them off, they swerved violently, came into resounding contact with a huge crane, and upset the _gharry_ with a shattering crash. Several men ran to the struggling ponies; Shafto and another to the overturned _gharry_ and hauled out two privates; number one, helplessly intoxicated; number two, not quite so helpless; the third person to emerge was, to Shafto's speechless amazement, no less a personage than a shaven priest--a full-grown _pongye_ in his yellow robe! He looked considerably dazed and a good deal cut about with broken gla.s.s. Waving away a.s.sistance, he tottered over and sat down behind a huge pile of rice stacks. Shafto immediately followed to inquire how he could help him, but before he had uttered a word, the _pongye_, who was much out of breath, gasped:

"Bedad! that was a near shave!"

Could Shafto believe his ears?

"Whist! now, and don't let on!" he continued, staunching a cut with a corner of his yellow robe--which he presently exchanged for Shafto's handkerchief--"the fright knocked it out of me!"

"So you're not a Burman?"

"Faix, I am not; I'm a native of Cork and was born in Madras, and only for yer honour we'd all be floating down the Irrawaddy this blessed minute."

His honour found it impossible to articulate; he merely stood and gaped. The Irish _pongye_, born in Cork and Madras, was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged man, with high cheek-bones, a closely-shorn head, and horn spectacles.

"Might I ask yer name, sorr?" he inquired at last, "and where ye live?"

"My name is Shafto; I live in a chummery at the corner of Sandwith Road."

"Oh, an' well I know it an' its old compound. They say it's full of _nats_, because of a murder as was done there. My name is Mung Baw, at yer service, and I'll not forget what ye did for me this day, and I'll call round. Blessed hour! where's my begging-bowl?"

As soon as Shafto had discovered and restored his _patta_, the _pongye_ arose, gave himself a shake and, without another word, stalked away, a tall, erect, unspeakably majestic figure.

When Shafto met Roscoe he lost no time in recounting his extraordinary adventure, and added triumphantly:

"So you see, Joe Roscoe, you are not the only man here who makes a strange acquaintance."

"I'm not surprised," he rejoined; "I've heard more than once of these white _pongyes_. I dare say the chap will be as good as his word and will look you up; I foresee an interesting interview."

In about three weeks Roscoe's prediction was verified. Returning home late one evening Shafto was struck by the unusually impressive appearance and gestures of the fat Madra.s.si butler who, beckoning him aside with an air of alarming mystery, informed him that "someone was in his room waiting to see his honour."

"In my room," he repeated indignantly. "Why the mischief did you put him in there? Couldn't he sit in the veranda, like other people?"

"No, saar, he refused; he would not."

Shafto flung open the door of his apartment with a gesture of annoyance and, to his profound amazement, discovered the _pongye_ seated in easy comfort upon his bed. He was surrounded by an odd medicinal aromatic atmosphere, his sandals, begging-bowl and umbrella were carefully disposed beside him and he appeared to be thoroughly at home.

"I thought I'd give ye a call, sorr, before I went up country. I'm off to Mandalay to-morrow on a pilgrimage."

"Oh, are you?" said Shafto, taking a seat and feeling at a complete loss what he was to say and how he was to handle this novel situation.

"I thought," resumed the _pongye_, "that I'd like to offer ye an explanation of the way I happened to be in that 'ere accident."

"Yes," a.s.sented his host; "I suppose this," pointing to his yellow gown with his stick, "is a fancy dress, for, of course, you are not a real _pongye_?"

"Troth, I am so," he rejoined with indignant emphasis; "I've been properly initiated--I know Burmese and the Pali language, and can intone a chant with anyone."

"All the same, you're an Irishman and your speech bewrayeth you. I wonder you are not kicked out."

"Is it kick me out? No fear! For besides being well respected and well liked, I'm a magician."

"Oh, come, that's all rot!" exclaimed Shafto impatiently.