did. I often think these natives know especially what they ought not to

know. I went on purpose to learn something, but in my secret soul I wished they were as ignorant as mules, and could tell me nothing.

Smith Sahib, they said, had gone home, to Wilayat, from Lucknow, on furlough, had married, and returning had been assistant at some place, and then magistrate at, alas! my station, and then commissioner at Jalalpur.

The whole story came out in a sentence. I then knew too much. I restrained my feelings as I was becoming hardened as a criminal who commits crime upon crime.

I did not care to think, and if I was ever thankful for a man who could talk, I was then. My friend was a whole mill stream of talk. The gate once opened, on he went. It was not idle or dull chatter either, but a flood of good things, interesting and amusing. I yielded entirely to his good humor, and the blue devils had no chance of attacking me. I dined with him, as my reason told me that this was the best thing I could do, and so it was.

At home again, but I was not happy, for I was not satisfied. I had, as it were, started out on a hunt, got track of the game, but had not bagged it. I know this is not at all respectful to compare a father to game, and to talk of bagging him, but then what had my father taught me of respect to himself or anybody else? What had he done for me but to curse me in begetting me?

When I have heard that prayer, “We bless thee for our creation,” may God forgive me I never could say it, and God knows why, and I think I love Him too well to believe that He will make any record against me for what I am now saying. What next? was the question. The same something, I do not know what, either led me, or pushed me on, or told me to go on, go on. I could sympathize with the wandering Jew.

I went to Jalalpur. On the way I tried to analyze my feelings. I had no love or respect for this man, though he should prove to be my father. That was settled. I had nothing to give him, that he would like to receive; I wished nothing from him, no public recognition of me as his son, if it was found that he was my father; I wanted no money or favor of any kind whatever. The only thing I wished really to know, who was my father. This man, or some equally honorable gentleman? I wanted to know, if I had a father, and who he was. I made up my mind to go most respectfully to Mr. Smith, state the case calmly, find out the fact, and go home to let the matter rest for ever and aye.

With this conclusion, I tried to assume a moral philosophic kind of feeling, and by the time I had taken a good bath at the hotel, donned my best morning suit, and fortified myself with a good substantial breakfast, I felt myself ready to meet anybody, even my father, if I should find him.

I went to the big bungalow of the Commissioner, guarded in front by a number of impudent lackeys, the hangers-on often make the man in India. I sent in my card, and was admitted to the presence. I bowed and said “Good morning,” but he did nothing. That was his style. He did not ask me to be seated, and I did what I could not help doing, remained standing. Glancing me over he quickly said, “I have nothing for you, there is no vacancy.” I replied that I did not wish for a situation. “O!” said he, “I thought you were the man that wanted a place.” I answered, “I come to ask you a few questions: were you in Lucknow in the year —.” He stopped me at once, saying, “I deny your right to question me. Say what you have got to say and as briefly as possible, for I have no time to waste.” Then I said, “I will state the matter as briefly as possible. You were in Lucknow in — and were acquainted with a Mussalmani, and I believe you to be my father.”

I got this out quickly so as to give him no chance to choke me off. He sprang to his feet, his face livid with rage, and shaking his fist at me exclaimed. “You damned Eurasian! Do you come here to insult me? I dare you to prove what you have said. Out from here at once. Chuprassi! Open the door, and get this man out.” This last was said in Hindustani in the most insulting tone and words.

What more or less could I do than go, and at once? I think even the cringing slave at the door, pitied me as the gentleman fairly shouted his insulting command. Did you ever see a dog go into a room wagging his tail and expecting a pleasant reception, then turned out with the forcible aid of a boot? I was that dog. If I had any respect, or desire to be just and fair before I went in, when I came out all had given way to anger and hate. That is about the size of it. I had been humiliated, cursed, spurned. My feelings flashed within me and over me, chills and fever, cold and hot they were. But this was uppermost. He dared me!

I have read that the quickest way to get up a shindy at an Irish fair, is to have a man go with his coat tails dragging on the ground and dare any one to step on them, or to put a potato on his shoulder and dare any one to knock it off. Men, that is, real men won’t be dared. I have known a little fellow at school to be dared by a big bully, and he went in for all he was worth, no matter if he came out all bleeding and pummeled, for he wouldn’t be dared.

“All right, Mr. Smith, you dared me to prove it. But how shall I do it?” was the question in my mind for days. It was a queer thing to do, prove that a man is your own father, but there are many queer things in the world, as probably all of us have discovered. I concluded to go again to Lucknow, though I had not the remotest idea of what I should do.

On arriving there, I at once went to M. Le Maistre. I had formed an opinion that he was very shrewd and quick-witted, and that if any one could help me he could.

He received me very kindly and after a little talk, I said, “M. Le Maistre, I rather like you and think I can trust you.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he replied.

I went on. “You know what I am in search of?”

“Your father,” he said with a smile.

I answered, “Something of that kind, perhaps. I went to see Mr. Smith. He was very angry, and dared me to prove that he was my father. I don’t care a fig about him as a man, or as a father, but I won’t be dared. I am to prove this thing, if it is possible, if it takes me the rest of my life. Can you help me?”

“We’ll see,” he answered. “Let us go over to the muhalla.” He was full of talk about everything. I think he would have gone to Jericho with me, if I had only agreed to listen to him.

A little incident occurred which I must relate, as I remember it so well. As we were going through his compound, I bounded up with a scream at the sight of a cobra rising in front of me. I think if Eve had hated snakes as I do, she would never have listened to that serpent. M. Le Maistre went to the cobra, took it in his hand and let it crawl up his sleeve. I stood aghast in astonishment. When I recovered my breath, I asked, “Are you not afraid?”

“Afraid!” said he. “Why should I be afraid? I never harmed a snake in my life and they never harm me.” Then he pulled the hideous thing out, placed it on the ground, and patted its neck with his hand, and we went on. The chills were still racing up and down my back, but with his lively stories I soon recovered.

Reaching the muhalla he began talking with the people, especially an old man, with whom he was well acquainted. M. Le Maistre told him, that he wanted to find out something about Smith Sahib’s woman who had lived in the two upper rooms, years ago. The old man after thinking, said that there was the son of a money-lender, not far away, whose father had done business for the woman, cashed notes for her or something, he did not know just what, and he might tell us something. So on we went and found the son. He at once said that he had lately been looking over some old papers of his father’s and had found some, hidden in an earthen jar, and among them a package. This might be what we wanted. He quickly brought it. There were some letters in English, turning yellow, yet very legible, but not one of them signed. Better than all these was a photograph of an English Sahib! The very thing! I recognized it at once. The fright I had received on that fearful night, when I had got the first and only sight of that monster man was so impressed on my mind that I remembered him as if I had seen him that very day. I fairly leaped for joy and M. Le Maistre chuckled at our success. That wonderful little package, so carefully done up, the treasure of my darling mama, and what was it not to me?

M. Le Maistre, with all his wits in hand, said: “Yet he may deny all these letters, for there is not a name anywhere! He was a shrewd one. But as it is a long lane that has no turn, we’ll see.” Away we went, I with the packet fast in my pocket, as happy as if I had got a deed of possession to a new world.

“Now,” said he, “we will go to the cutchery and get some papers to prove this handwriting.” On mentioning to the head clerk that we wanted to look at some papers of the year—he immediately said that he had just received orders to collect all the papers beyond a certain date to be burned in a few days, and we could look them over. We found what we wanted, and were allowed to take a dozen or more all written and signed “H. J. Smith.” The very handwriting of our letters to the crossing of a t and the dot of an i. I was satisfied and suggested that we return to his house, but M. Le Maistre said “O, no, we are not through yet. There is the photograph?” “Yes, but what of that?” I asked. “We’ll go to the photographer, and see what we can see,” he replied. He asked the man of art if he had the negative of such a photograph, showing him ours, or if he had any copies of it. He went to his closet and soon returned with a photograph, on the back of which was written: “You may make me one dozen like this—H. J. Smith.” The very same writing as in our letters, and in the cutchery papers. We quickly bought the picture, worth its weight in gold to me, not only for the likeness, but for the writing on the back of it. If I was surprised before, I was astonished now. I was in a delirium of excitement, but my old friend was as cool as when he handled the cobra. Any one can imagine only slightly my feelings, but they cannot realize my intense enjoyment at the out-turn of our search. With a quiet smile, my good friend then said, “I think you can eat a good breakfast now and we’ll have it.” And it was a good one. He drew on his boundless store of stories until I departed, giving him all the thanks my language could express, and carrying with me the proofs that I, Japhet, had found my father! Would he dare me again? It was some days before I felt that I could venture to beard the dragon (I ought to say my beloved father), in his den again. I was anxious to get through with the business, for it seemed that until it was finished I could do nothing else.