THE PONGYE

Late one warm afternoon in January, when Shafto was unusually busy on the Pagoda wharf—­consignments of paddy were coming in thick and fast—­suddenly, above the din of steam winches and donkey engines, there arose a great shouting, and he beheld an immense cloud of white dust rolling rapidly in his direction.

“Look out, it’s a runaway!” roared a neighbouring worker.  “By George, they’ll all be in the river!”

Sure enough, there came a rattle-trap hack gharry at the heels of a pair of galloping ponies.  The reins were broken, a yelling soldier sat helpless on the driver’s seat and several of his comrades were inside the rocking vehicle.  The animals, maddened with fear, were making straight for the Irrawaddy and, as Shafto rushed forward with outstretched arms to head them off, they swerved violently, came into resounding contact with a huge crane, and upset the gharry with a shattering crash.  Several men ran to the struggling ponies; Shafto and another to the overturned gharry and hauled out two privates; number one, helplessly intoxicated; number two, not quite so helpless; the third person to emerge was, to Shafto’s speechless amazement, no less a personage than a shaven priest—­a full-grown pongye in his yellow robe!  He looked considerably dazed and a good deal cut about with broken glass.  Waving away assistance, he tottered over and sat down behind a huge pile of rice stacks.  Shafto immediately followed to inquire how he could help him, but before he had uttered a word, the pongye, who was much out of breath, gasped: 

“Bedad! that was a near shave!”

Could Shafto believe his ears?

“Whist! now, and don’t let on!” he continued, staunching a cut with a corner of his yellow robe—­which he presently exchanged for Shafto’s handkerchief—­“the fright knocked it out of me!”

“So you’re not a Burman?”

“Faix, I am not; I’m a native of Cork and was born in Madras, and only for yer honour we’d all be floating down the Irrawaddy this blessed minute.”

His honour found it impossible to articulate; he merely stood and gaped.  The Irish pongye, born in Cork and Madras, was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged man, with high cheek-bones, a closely-shorn head, and horn spectacles.

“Might I ask yer name, sorr?” he inquired at last, “and where ye live?”

“My name is Shafto; I live in a chummery at the corner of Sandwith Road.”

“Oh, an’ well I know it an’ its old compound.  They say it’s full of nats, because of a murder as was done there.  My name is Mung Baw, at yer service, and I’ll not forget what ye did for me this day, and I’ll call round.  Blessed hour! where’s my begging-bowl?”

As soon as Shafto had discovered and restored his patta, the pongye arose, gave himself a shake and, without another word, stalked away, a tall, erect, unspeakably majestic figure.