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It's past seven o'clock and I understand your Roll Call is at six." "That's true," assented the pongye, "but there are exceptions, and I'm one of them," suddenly sliding off the bed and drawing himself up to his full height about six feet two. "I don't enjoy very good health being, as ye understand, no native of the country; so I'm allowed a certain margin and liberty.
Many's the time I've been aching for the hould of a gun, but, of course, it was an evil thought." "Your religion forbids you to take life?" "That's true; I've not tasted meat for years, but there's not a word to be said agin fish or an odd egg." "Tell me something more about your new faith!" "Well now, let me think," said the pongye meditatively.
His honour found it impossible to articulate; he merely stood and gaped. The Irish pongye, born in Cork and Madras, was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged man, with high cheek-bones, a closely-shorn head, and horn spectacles. "Might I ask yer name, sorr?" he inquired at last, "and where ye live?" "My name is Shafto; I live in a chummery at the corner of Sandwith Road."
He looked considerably dazed and a good deal cut about with broken glass. Waving away assistance, he tottered over and sat down behind a huge pile of rice stacks. Shafto immediately followed to inquire how he could help him, but before he had uttered a word, the pongye, who was much out of breath, gasped: "Bedad! that was a near shave!" Could Shafto believe his ears?
Ye see, one quarter of me is Cingalese I suppose me grandfather on one side was a Buddhist, and that is how pongye life came so pleasant and aisy to me. The three quarters of me is an Irish soldier, an' every day the soldier within me grows an' the pongye dies away." "And you will never return to Burma?" "Never, no.
He had been a soldier for six or seven years, got a bad stroke in the jungle, was taken in by Burmans, and was for seven years a pongye. When the war broke out he flung off his yellow robe, paid his passage to England, and is here, as you see, in his element." "It's amazing incredible but incredible things come off nowadays." Shafto nodded.
"Well, no, I can't say that I do," replied Shafto, casting his mind over the last eighteen months. "Well, of course, sir, I'm entirely different to what ye may remember in Rangoon." "What? you don't mean to say " The late pongye nodded with emphasis.. "I'm now Sergeant-Major Ryan, in the second battalion of the old regiment."
I have laid out to go to Ireland and spend the rest of my time there when the war is over." "Ah I wonder when the war will be over?" said Shafto. "God alone knows!" exclaimed the pongye. "They were talking in the bazaar of the end coming about Christmas. I think meself it will be a long business and an awkward business, too." "So do I," agreed Shafto, recalling the sage remarks of George Gregory.
"Well, Mung Baw, since you put it like that, I believe you could give me what would be far more use than a stone some valuable help." "Valuable help!" repeated the pongye, adjusting false horn spectacles and staring hard. "Then as far as it's in me power the help of every bone in me body is yours and at your service." "Thank you. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of the cocaine trade in Burma?"
Having arrived at this conclusion, Shafto changed his clothes and went to dinner in the veranda, where he was well chaffed about his recent visitor. "Been stealing something up at the Pagoda and they sent a Bo after you," suggested FitzGerald; "I must say your new friend is a rum-looking customer; a powerful, strapping pongye. He'd make a grand constable! What did he want?"
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