For Mr. Horace Faggit, plausible, observant, indefatigably cunning, and in business most capable ("No bloomin’ flies on ’Orris F.” as he would confidently and truthfully assure you) was the first tentative tentacle advanced to feel its way by the fine old British Firm of Schneider, Schnitzel, Schnorrer & Schmidt, in the mazy markets of the gorgeous Orient, and to introduce to the immemorial East their famous jewellery and wine of Birmingham and Whitechapel respectively; also to introduce certain exceeding-private documents to various gentlemen of Teutonic sympathies and activities in various parts of India—­documents of the nature of which Horace was entirely ignorant.

And the narrow bosom of Horace swelled with pride, as he realized that, here at least, he was a Gentleman and a Sahib.

Well, he’d let ’em know it too.  Those who did him well and pleased him should get tips, and those who didn’t should learn what it was to earn the displeasure of the Sahib and to evoke his wrath.  And he would endeavour to let all and sundry see the immeasurable distance and impassable gulf that lay between a Sahib and a nigger—­of any degree whatsoever.

This was the country to play the gentleman in and no error!  You could fling your copper cash about in a land where a one-and-fourpenny piece was worth a hundred and ninety-two copper coins, where you could get a hundred good smokes to stick in your face for about a couple of bob, and where you could give a black cabby sixpence and done with it.  Horace had been something of a Radical at home (and, indeed, when an office-boy, a convinced Socialist), especially when an old-age pension took his lazy, drunken old father off his hands, and handsomely rewarded the aged gentleman for an unswervingly regular and unbroken career of post-polishing and pub-pillaring.  But now he felt he had been mistaken.  Travel widens the horizon and class-hatred is only sensible and satisfactory when you are no class yourself.  When you have got a position you must keep it up—­and being one of the Ruling Race was a position undoubtedly.  Horace Faggit would keep it up too, and let ’em see all about it.

The train entered another station and drew in from the heat and glare to the heat and comparative darkness.

Yes, he would keep up his position as a Sahib haughtily and with jealousy,—­and he stared with terrible frown and supercilious hauteur at what he mentally termed a big, fat buck-nigger who dared and presumed to approach the carriage and look in.  The man wore an enormous white turban, a khaki Norfolk jacket, white jodhpore riding-breeches that fitted the calf like skin, and red shoes with turned-up pointed toes.  His beard was curled, and his hair hung in ringlets from his turban to his shoulders in a way Horace considered absurd.  Could the blighter be actually looking to see whether there might be room for him, and meditating entry?  If so Horace would show him his mistake.  Pretty thing if niggers were to get into First-Class carriages with Sahibs like Horace!