’Catch a native king disturbing the family treasure!  The priests forbid it except as the last resort.  Old Timbersides has added something like a quarter of a million to the deposit in his reign.’

‘Where the mischief does it all come from?’ said Mottram.

’The country.  The state of the people is enough to make you sick.  I’ve known the tax-men wait by a milch-camel till the foal was born and then hurry off the mother for arrears.  And what can I do?  I can’t get the court clerks to give me any accounts; I can’t raise anything more than a fat smile from the commander-in-chief when I find out the troops are three months in arrears; and old Timbersides begins to weep when I speak to him.  He has taken to the King’s Peg heavily,—­liqueur brandy for whisky, and Heidsieck for soda-water.’

’That’s what the Rao of Jubela took to.  Even a native can’t last long at that,’ said Spurstow.  ‘He’ll go out.’

’And a good thing, too.  Then I suppose we’ll have a council of regency, and a tutor for the young prince, and hand him back his kingdom with ten years’ accumulations.’

’Whereupon that young prince, having been taught all the vices of the English, will play ducks and drakes with the money and undo ten years’ work in eighteen months.  I’ve seen that business before,’ said Spurstow.  ’I should tackle the king with a light hand, if I were you, Lowndes.  They’ll hate you quite enough under any circumstances.’

’That’s all very well.  The man who looks on can talk about the light hand; but you can’t clean a pig-stye with a pen dipped in rose-water.  I know my risks; but nothing has happened yet.  My servant’s an old Pathan, and he cooks for me.  They are hardly likely to bribe him, and I don’t accept food from my true friends, as they call themselves.  Oh, but it’s weary work!  I’d sooner be with you, Spurstow.  There’s shooting near your camp.’

’Would you?  I don’t think it.  About fifteen deaths a day don’t incite a man to shoot anything but himself.  And the worst of it is that the poor devils look at you as though you ought to save them.  Lord knows, I’ve tried everything.  My last attempt was empirical, but it pulled an old man through.  He was brought to me apparently past hope, and I gave him gin and Worcester sauce with cayenne.  It cured him; but I don’t recommend it.’

‘How do the cases run generally?’ said Hummil.

’Very simply indeed.  Chlorodyne, opium pill, chlorodyne, collapse, nitre, bricks to the feet, and then—­the burning-ghat.  The last seems to be the only thing that stops the trouble.  It’s black cholera, you know.  Poor devils!  But, I will say, little Bunsee Lal, my apothecary, works like a demon.  I’ve recommended him for promotion if he comes through it all alive.’

‘And what are your chances, old man?’ said Mottram.

’Don’t know; don’t care much; but I’ve sent the letter in.  What are you doing with yourself generally?’