Part 22 (2/2)
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.
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