“All but four.”

“And not one of ’em to be trusted, I’ll swear.  Well, I’ll put a crew aboard to take charge.  Come along; there’s no time to lose.  Colonel Clive goes to bed early.”

“Colonel Clive!  Is he here?”

“Yes; arrived from home two days ago.  Ah! that reminds me; you’re a Shropshire lad; so’s he; do you know him?”

“No, sir; I’ve seen him; I—­I—­”

Desmond stammered, remembering his unfortunate encounter with Clive in Billiter Street.

“Well, well,” said the harbor master, with a quizzical look; “you’ll see him again.  Come along.”

Desmond accompanied Mr. Johnson on shore.  A crowd had gathered.  There were Sepoys in turban, cabay {cloak}, and baggy drawers; bearded Arabs; Parsis in their square caps; and a various assortment of habitues of the shore—­crimps, landsharks, badmashes {bad characters}, bunder {port} gangs.  Seeing Desmond hold his nose at the all-prevailing stench of fish, Mr. Johnson laughed.

“You’ll soon get used to that,” he said. “’Tis all fish oil and bummaloes {small fish the size of smelt, known when dried as ‘Bombay duck’} in Bombay.”

Having sent a trustworthy crew on board the Tremukji, the harbor master led Desmond to his house near the docks.  Here, while a native barber plied his dexterous razor on Desmond’s cheeks and chin, Mr. Johnson searched through a miscellaneous hoard of clothes in one of his capacious presses for an outfit.  He found garments that proved a reasonable fit, and Desmond, while dressing, gave a rapid sketch of his adventures since he left the prison shed in Gheria.

“My wigs, but you’ve had a time of it.  Mutiny and all!  Dash my buttons, here’s a tale for the ladies!  Let me look at you.  Yes, you’ll do now, and faith you’re a pretty fellow.  And Dick Burke’s son!  You’ve got his nose to a T; no nonsense about that.  Now you’re ready to make your bow to Mr. Bourchier.  He’s been a coursing match with Colonel Clive and Mr. Watson {it was customary to use the title Mr. in speaking to or of both naval and military officers} up Malabar Hill, and we’ll catch him before he sits down to supper.

“How do you feel inside, by the way?  Ready for a decent meal after the Pirate’s pig’s wash, eh?”

“I’m quite comfortable inside,” said Desmond, smiling, “but, to tell you the truth, Mr. Johnson, I feel mighty uneasy outside.  After six months of the dhoti these breeches and things seem just like bandages.”

“It en’t the first time you’ve been swaddled, if you had a mother.  Well now, if you’re ready.  What!  That rascal gashed you!  Tuts! ’tis a scratch.  Can’t wait to doctor that.  Come on.”

The two made their way into the fort inclosure, and walked rapidly to the Government House in the center.  In answer to Mr. Johnson the darwan {doorkeeper} at the door said that the governor would not return that night.  After the coursing match he was giving a supper party at his country house at Parell.