Part 18

"'You leave it to me,' he says, confident like; then he turns to the bone-silly Superintendent as stood dumbfounded, staring at 'im as if 'e were Lazarus noo raised. 'There's five an' twenty minutes yet, sir,' he says, 'afore His Honner's train's doo. On _my_ honner as Josiah 'Oneyman, I'll 'ave 'em safe out by then--only I won't 'ave no one a-interfering--everyone's got to obey my horders, and mine honly.'

"The bone-silly one hadn't a word to say, there was somethin' so awful majestic about the little man in 'is pyjamas, pore chap.

"Lordy, sir! you should 'ave 'eard him next with they Suckti Brahmins as was rubbing their bruises an' calling on Mai Kâli for assistance.

"'She ain't in it, sonnies, nor the chaps as you bamboozle, neither,' he said, said he. 'It's you as 'ave to make a offerin' yourselves this time, so it'll make a 'ole in your _pockets_ as well as your _stummicks_, my boys. An' it's no use your saying you ain't got no rupees--your credit's good enough for that.' An' here he waved 'is 'and, sir, to the row o' sweetmeat-sellers' booths and stalls as was sot just outside the iron railings. You seen 'em, sir. You know 'ow they looks at night. Harf a dozen trays piled up full o' treacle stuff an' greese, with a hoil _butti_ flaring an' smoking on the top of a pile o' their beastly toffee an' dribbling through it to give the dead flies a-stickin' to it a flavour. Yes! you've seen the '_met-aiy-yen-shee-yen_'"--here he gave an excellent rendering of the sweetmeat sellers' cry--"an' so've I--an' 'ad to eat it, too, w'en I was 'ard put to it. Well! 'e got the lot in, brass platters an' all, an' then began the rummiest go you ever see. W'en I was a boy, sir, in quires an' places w'ere they sing, parson use ter make us run through the service so as to get the Amens right up to time--it's 'arder nor runnin' a mail train, though you wouldn't believe it, sir. Well! they Suckti Brahmans 'ad to do the 'ole caboodle, same as if ole Mother Kâli was sitting like a spider with 'er eight red legs an' harms on the top of each sand-truck. For you see, sir, they was standin' fair an' square on the lines, engine's steam up, et cetera. It was a rare sight. The monkeys was fine an' pleased with the red baize an' the flags an' the motters, but the moment they 'eard them Brahmans begin to chant, they cock their tails an' listen, an' the ole buck monkey 'e clomb crafty along the girders so's to be ready to drop down so soon's he could. But 'Oneyman 'ad 'is views, an' wasn't goin' to be give away prematoor; so 'e kep a Suckti gennoflexing by each platter o' toffee until every truck 'ad its altar. Then 'e clumb up to the engine, an' beckon me to foller.

"I was standin' with one fut on the step when he shouted to the Suckties, 'Hands off.' I give you my word, sir, it weren't 'arf a minute before them trucks was covered as black as flies with them monkeys, grabbing an' yelling an' searchin' out for _met-aiy-en-sher-een_ like all possessed, for they were main hungry, 'avin' bin shut up all the arternoon. So there was our chanst, an' I was just leapin' in to put on steam, w'en that bone-silly ass of a Superintendent says, says 'e, 'You 'aven't got the baton.' An' sure 'nuff I 'adn't. For it was a single line, you see, sir, an' we 'ad to run a mile or two through a signal station afore branchin' off. Of course, I didn't ought to 'ave noticed 'is remark, but took the chance; but there it is! I was a bit on, an' I'd laughed fit to split my sides, let alone my 'ead. So I putt down my fut agin, an' made to go fetch it, when the engine she gave a screech an' started full speed. Whether 'Oneyman thought I was aboard, or whether he thought 'e 'ad no time to lose, I never knew, for after that 'twas no laughin' matter, I can tell you. But there wasn't much time, for as I run down the platform to 'urry up the baton, I see some o' the platters nigh empty already, an' they monkeys looking as if they were makin' ready to 'oof it. So when the screech come I turn back; but I was too late. She 'ad ten mile an hour on her afore I lep upon the back buffer, seeing there wasn't no other way o' getting along. An' then, sir"--Craddock drew his hand over his mouth, thoughtfully--"what come next sobered me in a jiffy. Talk o' the ride to Khiva! it wasn't in it to the ride I 'ad on the back buffer o' those sand trucks! Thirty, forty, fifty mile an hour, trundlin' along a consignment of A 1 devils from the nethermost 'ell. It was 'arf fright with them, sir, an' 'arf fury. As we scud past the signal station, full speed, I see the _babu_ fall on 'is face, an' cry '_dohai! dohai!_' as if 'twere the Day o' Judgment.

"An' then, sir, I begun to think o' that blockin' o' trees an' creepers an' butterflies, as was sure to crop up somewhere, closer or furder, and to wonder if 'Oneyman knew w'en to put on the brake; for 'e was only a stoker an' not one at that. Lordy, sir, we must a-bin a queer sight, rushin' through the moonlick night, with the engine flarin' fit to bust, a full cargo of devils from 'ell dancin' an' whoopin' an' 'owlin' like all possessed, an' Nathanial James Craddock astride the hoff buffer. I tell you, sir, if any one 'ad said 'whip be'ind,' I'd a-got down; but I didn't want to leave pore old 'Oneyman off my own bat.

"So there we were; but the little fireflies didn't seem to care. I see 'em from the buffer as we flew past, eddyin' up an' down, an' round an' round, just twinklin' among the trees like the stars up aloft--just as unreasonable-like an' careless as if there wasn't nothin' to worry about in this world--and there ain't, sir, since all flesh is grass, as the man said to the vegetarian. And then we come to the beginning of the end o' the line, but there weren't no slackenin' down o' steam; so I prepare to jump----

"An' jump I did. When I come to myself the moonlick was as peaceful as the grave. The engine 'ad cooled down, an' there weren't no sign o' life anywhere. Only a 'eap of wreckage. I found pore old 'Oneyman lying dead, chucked clean out o' the cab. 'E 'adn't no mark on 'im, an' somehow it seemed to me as if 'e 'ad died natural afore we run slap bang into the blockin' o' trees. For 'e knew enuff about stokin', sir, to turn off steam. I wouldn't a-took 'im on if 'e 'adn't.

"But there weren't a sign o' them monkeys, sir; an' wot's more, there's never bin one seen in that there jungle since."

Here Craddock rose, yawned, and passed over to the cranks and handles and valves. The next instant an ear-piercing whistle rang through the dust-laden air, seeming to set it a-quiver.

"That's to rouse old Meditations, sir," he said cheerfully; "but it won't do it. 'E's petrified to 'is place, an' I shall 'ave to lift 'im out o' the way, as per usual."

From afar I could see, like a speck upon the receding ribbon of rail, an immovable figure on the Permanent Way.

DRY GOODS

"Mr. Blooker, sir," said the head clerk severely, "no one whose chest measurement is under thirty-two inches has any right to beat time to 'Rule, Britannia,' even when it is played by a German band in the street."

A small man whose desk stood nearest the office window, against which a City fog lay like yellow cotton wool, blushed, apologised incoherently, and returned to fair general averages.

The other clerks tittered, since this was a recurring criticism. For, though Alexander Blooker's chest measurement made active patriotism impossible, the heart within it was full of that sentiment. This was unmistakable when he boomed forth solid songs of the past, such as the "Death of Nelson" and the "Soldier's Tear," in his big solid bass voice; the more modern ditties about "beggars" and "gurls" and "kids" and "khaki" being, he assured his club, "unsuitable to his organ." And Alexander Blooker was very proud of his organ.

"_Never, never, never will be slaves_."

Quite unconsciously his dutiful pen punctuated each quaver and semi-quaver, though in his heart of hearts he knew that he himself had been a slave all his life. First to an old aunt who had lately died full of self-satisfaction because she left him fifty pounds out of the money she had saved from the earnings he had brought home to her all his working life; and secondly to the head clerk, Mr. Mossop. Such a kind, good----

"Blooker, please!" chanted the office boy, showing round the glass screen.

It was the voice of Fate. Wondering vaguely whether this unusual call to the innermost Holy of Holies, "Our Firm," presaged dismissal--possibly for punctuating patriotism--he went meekly.

And he returned as he went, to sit down solidly once more to fair general averages. The other clerks waited for a remark, but none came; so the pens scraped and scraped until time was up.

Then, when the office was empty, save for himself and Alexander, Mr. Mossop, the head clerk, went over to the latter's desk.

"We can finish that for you, Mr. Blooker," he said, "you have much to do."

"Thank you, sir," came the solemn reply, "I am much obliged to you, sir, but I would rather complete it myself, sir, before going to----" Then decorum gave way. "Mr. Mossop, sir," he continued wildly, "am I on my 'ed or on my 'eels? I can't believe it--and it is all your doing, sir. I feel sure 'Our Firm' wouldn't never have done it if you hadn't spoken for me, and--and--I don't know whether I am on my 'ed or my 'eels!"

As a rule Alexander Blooker struggled successfully with the accent of Cockaigne, but in times of stress, and especially when using certain set phrases, he adhered to it as if he felt it added forcefulness of expression.

There was a suspicion of a tear in his pale blue eye, and Mr. Mossop felt inclined to brace him up by telling him the truth; namely, that "Our Firm" contemplated in the near future closing the Distant Depot to the charge of which he had been appointed. Briefly, it did not pay: Germany had got at the markets in the way that Germany has, when competition is old-fashioned. But Alexander Blooker's face came up from the ledger over which it had bent itself for a moment with an expression on it that startled Mr. Mossop out of contemptuous compassion.

"I am going to run this job on my own, sir," he began eagerly; "I'm going to work it on Imperial lines----"

"H'm--we are not at the debating club, Mr. Blooker," interrupted the head clerk; but Alexander was beyond recall; his voice took on the blatant tone of the public speaker.

"Shrinkage in trade follows shortage in piece goods, and our piece goods is short. Germany's ain't. I don't say that 'Our Firm' is as bad as most, but there's a cool quarter yard out of the forty for rubbage border and all that. Besides, mind you, some of 'em goes as far as three-quarters!--a _cool_-three-quarters!!--and why not? If you tike a hinch why not tike a hell!"

This was apparently quite conclusive, for the head clerk hastily changed the subject to the necessary preparations. But two days could be allowed, as the Distant Depot lay up a river that was only navigable for six months in the year; and four of these were already overpast. It was rather a rush, but the present occupant of the post had unexpectedly accepted the agency of a liquor shop; and the half-yearly market must not find "Our Firm" without a representative. So the first mail--it was a journey of six or seven weeks--must be the one. If any money was wanted--"Thank you, sir," replied Alexander Blooker; "the fifty pounds of my own that my aunt left me will do for the present: by-and-by perhaps----"

He looked mysterious, but he said no more to anyone; unless he whispered something to the glass case illustrating cotton manufactures in the Imperial Institute, which had always had an especial fascination for him. Despite his hurry, he was looking at the peculiarly broad borders of a pile of piece goods and muttering under his breath, "If you tike a hinch you may as well tike a hell," when a man of gold lace and buttons found him, after closing time, and hustled him by corridors of Imperial pickle bottle into the Sahara of Exhibition Road.

Within two months he was--to use his own expression--"taking down the shutters" in a very different desert. For the "Distant Depot" lay at the Back o' Beyont. Whereabouts in the World-Circle matters nothing. Briefly, it was one of those advancing tentacles of civilisation boasting the Mission-House, the Dry-Goods-Store or two and the Whisky-Shop, which carry between them civilisation to the aboriginal. Beyond it lay desolation, except for a single telegraph wire which spanned the void towards the west, instead of following the tortuous curves of the river (now sinking into sandbanks), which after a long course south-eastward eventually found itself at the same goal--the sea-board. There was no town to speak of; only a cluster of leaf-huts, besides the Mission-House and Chapel, the two Stores and the Liquor-Shop. And these were so close clustered that to Alexander Blooker, when he rose to look out over his new world on the morning after his arrival, it seemed as if the bell which was being rung from the Chapel was a general invitation to pray, and buy, and drink.

But it was a pretty little place. A real oasis in the surrounding desert of sands, and almost bewilderingly green amidst thickets of banana trees.

A tall fat man showed in the verandah of the opposition.

"_Guten, morgen, mien freund_," he called, with superb indifference. "I gif you welcome."

That was doubtless Franz Braun, the German rival, and Alexander Blooker hated him at sight; but he kept his dignity.

"The same to you, sir," he replied stiffly, "I trust trade is good."

"It is goot for me," remarked Franz Braun, with an air for which Alexander Blooker could have kicked him. That being impossible owing to their relative sizes, the little man relieved his bellicose feelings by beginning on "'Twas in Trafalgar Bay." It still had for him the charm of novelty to be able to beat time when and where he chose.

"_Mein Gott!_" shouted Franz Braun excitedly over the way. "_Wass fur eine Stimme! Wunderbar!_"

It was the voice that did it. But for it the armed neutrality of the past between the rival firms might have remained in the future; as it was, an hour afterwards Alexander Blooker was politely but steadily refusing to sing a second to the "Wacht am Rhein," although Franz Braun (who had an equally good high tenor, after the fashion of tall burly men) wept on his shoulder and called him "_Bruderlein_."

"You must to the pastor-house this evening," sighed the big creature at last, "Fraulein Anna, who is to the Pastor Schmidt daughter, will make you sing. She is _my verlobte_. I will to her be married, but she will make you sing."

Nevertheless, neither her yellow hair nor her blue eyes beguiled Alexander Blooker from his fixed determination; but they sang together for half the night, and the memory of Fraulein Anna's soaring soprana, as the notes of "Oh! for the wings of a dove" floated into the hot air, was with him as, despite the lateness of the hour, he set all in readiness for the morrow. Since on the next day's doings much depended; for it was the yearly market-day, on which all the native traders from far and near came to buy goods. Alexander Blooker, in fact, had hurried his _doongah_ up the sinking river so as to reach the Distant Depot in time for it. His last task was the undoing of one of the small bales which throughout their journey had been the objects of his special care.

"It you tike a' hinch you may as well tike the h'ell," he murmured, as he cut the packing threads by the dim light--for he had refused to use the "Made in Germany" lamp of his predecessor. Then, with a sigh of satisfaction, he held up the top one of the hard-pressed pile of printed cotton handkerchiefs.

"That ought to fetch 'em," he said admiringly. Certainly it might have "fetched" anything and everything. To use heraldic terms, the field of the kerchief was gules, argent and azure, arranged in _saltire_--otherwise, a Union Jack. An _escutcheon of pretence_ bore the Queen's head _regardant_, while _quarterly_, _en surtout_, were: on the first, _gules_, three lions _passant_, or, for England; on the second, or, a lion _rampant_ within a double _tressure flory counter flory_, _gules_, for Scotland; on the third, azure, a harp, _or_, stringed _argent_, for Ireland; on the fourth?--well!--why the fourth field should have been charged with specimens from a pack of cards, Alexander Blooker did not know. It was a blot on the _scutcheon_, no doubt; but two days had not sufficed for the printing of a special design, and this was the best he had been able to find. Besides, in a measure, it was true. There was no blinking the fact that even British civilisation was apt to bring gambling and drinking with it.

The next day the whole place was full up with native traders and natives generally. The first sight of them made Alexander Blooker wonder why they were so eager for piece goods, considering how little of them they wore! But then he had hardly realised that beyond that northerly desert lay a huge tract of densely-populated, almost unknown land.

Trade was brisk over the way at Franz Braun's store. The cheap German muslins, guaranteed full length, and packed in convenient carriageable size, went off like smoke; and it was not until the best lots had gone off that a trader thought it worth while to give a perfunctory glance at Alexander Blooker's consignments. Then his eye fell instantly on the heraldic handkerchiefs.

"Sell, how much?" he asked.

Alexander Blooker shook his head. "They are not for sale, sir," he replied loftily. "They are a gift. An Imperial gift from Her Gracious Majesty the Queen of England. Everyone as buys forty yards of English stuff has one of them given in, free, gratis, and for nothin'. Him as buys two, has three, and so on--much the same as parcel post rates."

It took two interpreters to bring home this admixture of patriotism and progressive bribery to the limited brains of purchasers, but when it did find its way into their understanding, the effect was marvellous. Before the sun set Alexander Blooker had to conceal his last bale of handkerchiefs against the year which must elapse before he could get a new supply.

"So! _mein freund_," said Franz Braun, with a good-natured laugh. "It is well; but it is not trade!"

"It will be trade," replied little Alexander stoutly. "I am going to work this job on Imperial lines."

It grew to be a joke in this Distant Depot, as it had been in the City office where the yellow fog lay on the windows like cotton wool; but here Mr. Blooker had liberty to beat time to anything he chose. And it was surprising how the natives took to him. He must have spent a good deal of his fifty pounds on the purchase of medicines, for his morning dispensary soon out-rivalled Pastor Schmidt's--who, in truth, was growing a bit old for the work. He had lost his wife of late years, his daughter was betrothed to Franz Braun (who had a promise of a post elsewhere), and the hearts of all three held hope of change in the near future which hindered much enthusiasm in the present. Not that there had ever been much of it in their lives; even the old missionary had gone on his way coolly, if conscientiously.

Alexander Blooker, on the contrary, was always at fever heat. He managed to transfer some of his ardour even through the lengthy mail to "Our Firm," so that when the river route reopened, a double consignment of dry goods took advantage of the water. The last penny, too, of the fifty pounds had gone, through Mr. Mossop's agency, in handkerchiefs of brand-new design, more heraldic, more patriotic than ever, and guiltless of cards. Perhaps Alexander Blooker felt that, so far as he was concerned, British civilisation was bringing no evil in its train.

And it was not. It was surprising, indeed, to see how the Distant Depot had improved in tone. Franz Braun, who, deprived by the difficulty of carriage of sufficient lager beer to satisfy him, had taken to over-much whisky instead, now, greatly to the delight of his "_verlobte_," satisfied his thirst on home-made ginger-pop, brewed by a recipe of Alexander's aunt, while the old pastor gave in with smiling acquiescence to the appropriation by Alexander Blooker of what might be called "parochial work." In fact, there was some talk of building another shanty as a parish hall; for the little man was distinctly churchy, and liked things in order. A Temperance League and a Band of Hope had, combined with an enlarged liver, made the liquor-store keeper take leave home, and Alexander, having offered to run the business until another man could come out, was now conducting it with a curious mixture of conscience and commerce.

So the eve of the next yearly market came round, and Alexander, in a fervour of Imperialism, actually climbed up the telegraph post which stood in one corner of his compound, and nailed a pocket-handkerchief to it, flag-wise.

"So!" called Franz Braun from over the way, half-jocularly, half-vexedly, "the patrol will at you haf damages when he returns."

For that single wire which sped seawards from north to south was patrolled at intervals by a staff of engineers from the former.

"He has paid his last visit for the cool season," said Alexander knowingly; "so there it can stay if it likes for the next four months, at any rate."

"I wish that to me came the same certainty of liking," growled Franz Braun, "but, you see, the Herr papa ails, and the _verlobte_ wishes him to the Homeland to take, and I would also go if I could."

A vague alarm showed on Alexander Blooker's face. "And leave me here alone? I'm glad you can't."

The idea, however, stuck in his brain. Supposing he were left alone, what would he do?

After he had arranged everything to his liking for the morrow, this idea of perfect solitude kept him from sleep and he strolled out with a pipe to quiet his nerves in the desert.

What would he do if he were left alone? A curious elation mixed with his natural dread. He walked, and walked, scarcely thinking out the question, only feeling it in that big heart of his. He had instinctively followed the telegraph line himself so as to be sure of not losing his way, but now he started at the sight of a solitary figure before him, visible in the moonlight, advancing to him, and keeping the same bee-line swiftly yet stumblingly, with a pause as for a few seconds' rest at each post. It was someone who was ill, or very, very tired.

A woman, a native woman! He could hear her voice now in her pauses. Always the same words mumbled mechanically over and over again:

"Save me, Queen-of-the-handkerchief.... Save me...."

He knew enough of the language now to understand so much, and he waited, watching her curiously.

Across the last gap she stumbled towards him, gave one surprised look at him, and--with a vague effort at the same words as if he had been a telegraph post--sank down in a dead faint.

She was quite a slip of a girl, and, after a time, she came to herself; but she was so exhausted that it was past grey dawn when Alexander Blooker managed to get her back to the telegraph post in the corner of his compound. And to this she clung pertinaciously, much to his annoyance, for he wanted to get her out of the way, and find who she was, and what she wanted, before the native traders began to turn up.

His remonstrances, however, were in vain. Her only reply was a murmured incoherent repetition of her first appeal:

"Save me! Queen-of-the-handkerchiefs."

And every time she said it, Alexander Blooker experienced a patriotic thrill down his back. He felt that she must at all costs be saved--but from what?

The dawn grew from grey to gold.

"_Gott in Himmel!_" laughed Franz Braun, coming down very early because of something he had forgotten. "_Mein Alexander mit a Madchen! Ach!_ fie!"