‘What filthy bad management!’ Spurstow snarled.

’Can’t help it.  I’ve written and wired; but the trains don’t come through regularly yet.  Last week the ice ran out,—­as Lowndes knows.’

‘Glad I didn’t come.  I could ha’ sent you some if I had known, though.  Phew! it’s too hot to go on playing bumblepuppy.’  This with a savage scowl at Lowndes, who only laughed.  He was a hardened offender.

Mottram rose from the table and looked out of a chink in the shutters.

‘What a sweet day!’ said he.

The company yawned all together and betook themselves to an aimless investigation of all Hummil’s possessions,—­guns, tattered novels, saddlery, spurs, and the like.  They had fingered them a score of times before, but there was really nothing else to do.

‘Got anything fresh?’ said Lowndes.

’Last week’s Gazette of India, and a cutting from a home paper.  My father sent it out.  It’s rather amusing.’

’One of those vestrymen that call ‘emselves M.P.’s again, is it?’ said Spurstow, who read his newspapers when he could get them.

’Yes.  Listen to this.  It’s to your address, Lowndes.  The man was making a speech to his constituents, and he piled it on.  Here’s a sample:  “And I assert unhesitatingly that the Civil Service in India is the preserve —­the pet preserve—­of the aristocracy of England.  What does the democracy—­what do the masses—­get from that country, which we have step by step fraudulently annexed?  I answer, nothing whatever.  It is farmed with a single eye to their own interests by the scions of the aristocracy.  They take good care to maintain their lavish scale of incomes, to avoid or stifle any inquiries into the nature and conduct of their administration, while they themselves force the unhappy peasant to pay with the sweat of his brow for all the luxuries in which they are lapped."’ Hummil waved the cutting above his head. ’’Ear! ‘ear!’ said his audience.

Then Lowndes, meditatively:  ‘I’d give—­I’d give three months’ pay to have that gentleman spend one month with me and see how the free and independent native prince works things.  Old Timbersides’—­this was his flippant title for an honoured and decorated feudatory prince—­’has been wearing my life out this week past for money.  By Jove, his latest performance was to send me one of his women as a bribe!’

‘Good for you!  Did you accept it?’ said Mottram.

’No.  I rather wish I had, now.  She was a pretty little person, and she yarned away to me about the horrible destitution among the king’s women-folk.  The darlings haven’t had any new clothes for nearly a month, and the old man wants to buy a new drag from Calcutta,—­solid silver railings and silver lamps, and trifles of that kind.  I’ve tried to make him understand that he has played the deuce with the revenues for the last twenty years and must go slow.  He can’t see it.’

’But he has the ancestral treasure-vaults to draw on.  There must be three millions at least in jewels and coin under his palace,’ said Hummil.