“So they can hang me for share in bomb-outrage and welcome (though I never threw the bomb nor made it, and only took academic interest in affair as I told the Judge Sahib)—­for I maintain with my dying breath that it was I who murdered Mr. Spensonly and put tongue in cheeks when Gungapur Gazette wrote column about the unhealthy bungalow in which he was so foolish as to have his office.  When I reflect that by this time to-morrow I shall be Holy Martyr I rejoice and hope photo will be good one, and I send this message to all the world—­

“‘Oh be....’”

* * * * *

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Gosling-Green, M.P., liked this Pathan gentleman so well after reading his letter and enclosure.  Before long they liked him very much less—­although they did not know it—­which sounds cryptic.

Sec. 5.  MR. HORACE FAGGIT.

“Fair cautions, ain’t they, these bloomin’ niggers,” observed Mr. Horace Faggit, as the train rested and refreshed itself at a wayside station on its weary way to distant Gungapur.

Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley, of the 99th Baluch Light Infantry, apparently did not feel called upon to notice the remark of Horace, whom he regarded as a Person.

“Makes you proud to think you are one of the Ruling Rice to look at the silly blighters, don’t it?” he persisted.

“No authority on rice,” murmured the Colonel, without looking up from his book.

Stuffy old beggar he seemed to the friendly and genial Horace, but Horace was too deeply interested in India and Horace to be affected by trifles.

For Mr. Horace Faggit had only set foot in his Imperial Majesty the King Emperor’s Indian Empire that month, and he was dazed with impressions, drunk with sensations, and uplifted with pride.  Was he not one of the Conquerors, a member of the Superior Society, one of the Ruling Race, and, in short, a Somebody?

The train started again and Horace sank back upon the long couch of the unwonted first-class carriage, and sighed with contentment and satisfaction.

How different from Peckham and from the offices of the fine old British Firm of Schneider, Schnitzel, Schnorrer & Schmidt!  A Somebody at last—­after being office-boy, clerk, strap-hanger, gallery-patron, cheap lodger, and paper-collar wearer.  A Somebody, a Sahib, an English gent., one of the Ruling and Upper Class after being a fourpenny luncher, a penny-’bus-and-twopenny—­tuber, a waverer ’twixt Lockhart and Pearce-and-Plenty.

For him, now, the respectful salaam, precedence, the first-class carriage, the salutes of police and railway officials, hotels, a servant (elderly and called a “Boy"), cabs (more elderly and called “gharries"), first-class refreshment and waiting rooms, a funny but imposing sun-helmet, silk and cotton suits, evening clothes, deference, regard and prompt attention everywhere.  Better than Peckham and the City, this!  My!  What tales he’d have to tell Gwladwys Gwendoline when he had completed his circuit and returned.