to the other, as I went on with my task. He coughed once or twice to attract my
attention.
“Beg pardon, sir, but I meant work—good, honest work. Work was what I
wanted, to earn this very glass of whiskey for my little gal. She’s sick, sir, sick—
sick in a hut at the station.”
“Your little what?” I asked in amazement.
“My little gal, sir. She’s all that’s left me. If you’ll trust me with the glass, I’ll
take it to her. Can’t give you no security, I’m afraid, only the word of a broken-
down old father, who has got a little gal what he loves better than life!”
My long experience with tramps and beach-combers was at fault. No words can
convey an idea of the pathos and humility he threw into his tone and actions. The
yearning of the voice, the almost divine air of self-abnegation, the subdued flash
of pride here and there that suggested better days, the hopeless droop of the
arms, and the irresolute tremble of the corners of his mouth would have appealed
to the heart of a heathen idol. That one of his caste should refuse a glass of
“Usher’s Best,” and be willing to brave the burst of a southwest monsoon to take
it to any one—child, mother, or wife—was incredible.
“Drink it,” I said roughly. “You will need it before you get to the station. Boy,
bring me my waterproof and an umbrella. Now out you go. We’ll see whether
this ‘little gal’ is male or female,—seven or seventy.”
The loafer snatched up his helmet with an avidity that admitted of no question as
to his earnestness.
We made a wild rush down across the oozing compound, through a little strip of
dripping jungle, over a swaying foot-bridge that spanned the muddy Sonji
Changhi, and along the sandy floor of a cocoanut grove. On the outskirts of a
station we came upon a deserted bungalow, that was trembling in the storm on
its rotten supports.
We went up its rickety ladder and across its open bamboo floor, to the darkest
corner, where, on an old mat under the only dry spot in the hut, lay a bundle of
rags.