‘Is it officially declared yet?’

’They’ve gone as far as to admit extreme local scarcity, and they’ve started relief-works in one or two districts, the paper says.’

’That means it will be declared as soon as they can make sure of the men and the rolling-stock.  Shouldn’t wonder if it were as bad as the Big Famine.’

‘Can’t be,’ said Scott, turning a little in the long cane chair.  ’We’ve had fifteen-anna crops in the north, and Bombay and Bengal report more than they know what to do with.  They’ll be able to check it before it gets out of hand.  It will only be local.’

Martyn picked up the Pioneer from the table, read through the telegrams once more, and put up his feet on the chair-rests.  It was a hot, dark, breathless evening, heavy with the smell of the newly-watered Mall.  The flowers in the Club gardens were dead and black on their stalks, the little lotus-pond was a circle of caked mud, and the tamarisk-trees were white with the dust of days.  Most of the men were at the bandstand in the public gardens—­from the Club verandah you could hear the native Police band hammering stale waltzes—­or on the polo-ground or in the high-walled fives-court, hotter than a Dutch oven.  Half a dozen grooms, squatted at the heads of their ponies, waited their masters’ return.  From time to time a man would ride at a foot-pace into the Club compound, and listlessly loaf over to the whitewashed barracks beside the main building.  These were supposed to be chambers.  Men lived in them, meeting the same faces night after night at dinner, and drawing out their office-work till the latest possible hour, that they might escape that doleful company.

‘What are you going to do?’ said Martyn, with a yawn.  ’Let’s have a swim before dinner.’

‘Water’s hot,’ said Scott.  ‘I was at the bath to-day.’

‘Play you game o’ billiards—­fifty up.’

’It’s a hundred and five in the hall now.  Sit still and don’t be so abominably energetic.’

A grunting camel swung up to the porch, his badged and belted rider fumbling a leather pouch.

‘Kubber-kargaz—­ki—­yektraaa,’ the man whined, handing down the newspaper extra—­a slip printed on one side only, and damp from the press.  It was pinned on the green baize-board, between notices of ponies for sale and fox-terriers missing.

Martyn rose lazily, read it, and whistled.  ‘It’s declared!’ he cried.  ’One, two, three—­eight districts go under the operation of the Famine Code ek dum.  They’ve put Jimmy Hawkins in charge.’

‘Good business!’ said Scott, with the first sign of interest he had shown.  ’When in doubt hire a Punjabi.  I worked under Jimmy when I first came out and he belonged to the Punjab.  He has more bundobust than most men.’

‘Jimmy’s a Jubilee Knight now,’ said Martyn.  ’He was a good chap, even though he is a thrice-born civilian and went to the Benighted Presidency.  What unholy names these Madras districts rejoice in—­all ungas or rungas or pillays or polliums.’