’Be still now.  ‘Twas my fault for beginnin’ things in the middle av an end, Jock.  I should ha’ comminst wid an explanation; but Jock, dear, on your sowl are ye fit, think you, for the finest fight that iver was—­ betther than fightin’ me?  Considher before ye answer.’

More than ever puzzled, Learoyd turned round two or three times, felt an arm, kicked tentatively, and answered, ‘Ah’m fit.’  He was accustomed to fight blindly at the bidding of the superior mind.

They sat them down, the men looking on from afar, and Mulvaney untangled himself in mighty words.

‘Followin’ your fools’ scheme I wint out into the thrackless desert beyond the barricks.  An’ there I met a pious Hindu dhriving a bullock-kyart.  I tuk ut for granted he wud be delighted for to convoy me a piece, an’ I jumped in—­’

‘You long, lazy, black-haired swine,’ drawled Ortheris, who would have done the same thing under similar circumstances.

‘’Twas the height av policy.  That naygur-man dhruv miles an’ miles—­as far as the new railway line they’re buildin’ now back av the Tavi river.  “‘Tis a kyart for dhirt only,” says he now an’ again timoreously, to get me out av ut.  “Dhirt I am,” sez I, “an’ the dhryest that you iver kyarted.  Dhrive on, me son, an glory be wid you.”  At that I wint to slape, an’ took no heed till he pulled up on the embankmint av the line where the coolies were pilin’ mud.  There was a matther av two thousand coolies on that line—­you remimber that.  Prisintly a bell rang, an’ they throops off to a big pay-shed.  “Where’s the white man in charge?” sez I to my kyart-dhriver.  “In the shed,” sez he, “engaged on a riffle.”—­“A fwhat?” sez I.  “Riffle,” sez he.  “You take ticket.  He take money.  You get nothin’.”—­

“Oho!” sez I, “that’s fwhat the shuperior an’ cultivated man calls a raffle, me misbeguided child av darkness an’ sin.  Lead on to that raffle, though fwhat the mischief ‘tis doin’ so far away from uts home—­ which is the charity-bazaar at Christmas, an’ the colonel’s wife grinnin’ behind the tea-table—­is more than I know.”  Wid that I wint to the shed an’ found ’twas pay-day among the coolies.  Their wages was on a table forninst a big, fine, red buck av a man—­sivun fut high, four fut wide, an’ three fut thick, wid a fist on him like a corn-sack.  He was payin’ the coolies fair an’ easy, but he wud ask each man if he wud raffle that month, an’ each man sez?  “Yes,” av course.  Thin he wud deduct from their wages accordin’.  Whin all was paid, he filled an ould cigar-box full av gun-wads an’ scatthered ut among the coolies.  They did not take much joy av that performince, an’ small wondher.  A man close to me picks up a black gun-wad an’ sings out, “I have ut.”—­“Good may ut do you,” sez I. The coolie wint forward to this big, fine, red man, who threw a cloth off av the most sumpshus, jooled, enamelled an’ variously bedivilled sedan-chair I iver saw.’

’Sedan-chair!  Put your ’ead in a bag.  That was a palanquin.  Don’t yer know a palanquin when you see it?’ said Ortheris with great scorn.