“That’s a nuisance.  But we can’t have any nonsense.  The governor’s a bit of an autocrat; too much starch in his shirt, I say; but we’ll go out to Parell and beard him, by Jove!  ’Tis only five miles out, and we’ll drive there in under an hour.”

Turning away he hurried out past the tank house on to the Green, and by good luck found an empty shigram {carriage like a palanquin on wheels} waiting to be hired.  Desmond mounted the vehicle with no little curiosity.  These great beasts with their strange humps would surely not cover five miles in less than an hour.  But he was undeceived when they started.  The two sturdy oxen trotted along at a good pace in obedience to the driver’s goad, and the shigram rattled across Bombay Green, past the church and the whitewashed houses of the English merchants, their oyster-shell windows already lit up; and in some forty-five minutes entered a long avenue leading to Mr. Bourchier’s country house.  Twice during the course of the journey Desmond was interested to see the shigramwallah {wallah is a personal affix, denoting a close connection between the person and the thing described by the main word.  Shigramwallah thus is carriage driver} pull his team up, dismount, and, going to their heads, insert his hand in their mouths.

“What does he do that for?” he asked.

“To clear their throats, to be sure.  When the beasts go at this pace they make a terrible lot of foam, and if he didn’t swab it out they’d choke, and no nonsense.

“Well, here we are.  Dash my wig, won’t his Excellency open his eyes!”

Since their departure from the fort the sky had become quite dark.  At the end of the avenue they could see the lights of Governor Bourchier’s bungalow, and by and by caught sight of figures sitting on the veranda.  Desmond’s heart beat high; he made no doubt that one of them was Clive; the moment to which he had looked forward so eagerly was at last at hand.  He was in no dream land; but his dream had come true.  He felt a little nervous at the prospect of meeting men so famous, so immeasurably above him, as Clive and Admiral Watson; but with Clive he felt a bond of union in his birthplace, and it was with recovered confidence that he sprang out of the cart and accompanied Mr. Johnson to the bungalow.  He was further reassured by a jolly laugh that rang out just as he reached the steps leading up to the veranda.

“Hullo, Johnson,” said a voice, “what does this mean?”

“I’ve come to see the governor, Captain.”

“Then you couldn’t have come at a worse time.  The supper’s half an hour late, and you know what that means to the governor.”

Mr. Johnson smiled.

“He’ll forget his supper when he has heard my news.  ’Tis about the Pirate.”

“What’s that?” said another voice.  “News of the Pirate?”

“Yes, Mr. Watson.  This young gentleman—­”

But he was interrupted by the khansaman {butler}, who came out at this moment and with a salaam announced that supper was served.