"I understand," I said. "Your bumper crop did not come, and your chitty did. Where does she come in?" I nodded in the direction of the little sleeper.
He glanced uneasily in the same direction, and a tear gathered in his eye.
"I married on credit, sir, the daughter of an English army officer. It was infernal. But, sir, you would have done likewise. Live under the burning sun of India for four years, struggle against impossibilities and hope against hope, and then have a pair of great hazel eyes look lovingly into yours and a pair of red lips turned up to yours,--and tell me if you would not have closed your eyes to the future, and accepted this precious gift as though it were sent from above?"
The pale, shrunken face of the speaker glowed, and his faded eyes lit up with the light of love.
"We were happy for a time, and the little gal was born, but the bumper crop did not come. Then, sir, I sold farm tools and my horse, and sent the wife to a hill station for her health. I kept the little gal. I stayed to work, as none of my natives ever worked. It was a gay station to which she went. You know the rest,--she never came back. That ended the struggle. I would have shot myself but for the little one. I took her and we wandered here and there, doing odd jobs for a few months at a time. I drifted down to Singapore, hoping to better myself, but, sir, I am about used up. It's hard--hard."
He buried his head in his long, thin fingers, and sat perfectly still.
There was a sound outside above the roar of the wind and the rain. At first faint and intermittent, it grew louder, and continuous, and came close. There was no mistaking it,--the march of booted men.
"What's that?" asked my companion, with a start.
"Tommy Atkins," I replied, "the clang of the ammunition boot as big as life."
His face grew ashy white, and he looked furtively around the room.
"What's the matter?" I exclaimed, but as I asked, I knew.
I opened the bath-room door and shoved him in.
"Go in there" I said, "and compose some more fairy tales."
He was scarcely out of sight when the front door was thrown open, and a corporal's guard, wet yet happy, marched into the room.
The corporal stood with his back to the door, and gave himself mental words of command,--"Eyes left, eyes right,"--then, as a last resource,--"eyes under the table." He had not noticed the little bundle in the dark corner. He drew himself up and gave the military salute.