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I began to tell the story of Charlie in English, but Grish Chunder put a question in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally in the tongue best suited for its telling. After all it could never have been told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to time, and then came up to my rooms where I finished the tale. "Beshak," he said, philosophically.
"I shall very much like it," said Grish Chunder, unguardedly. "Once a Hindu always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they know." "I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old tale to you."
Therefore he was deeply interested in guinea competitions. Remembering what Grish Chunder had said I laughed aloud. The Lords of Life and Death would never allow Charlie Mears to speak with full knowledge of his pasts, and I must even piece out what he had told me with my own poor inventions while Charlie wrote of the ways of bank clerks.
"Lekin darwaza band hai. It is of course an old tale with us, but, to happen to an Englishman a cow-fed Malechk an outcast. By Jove, that is most peculiar!" "Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You eat cow-beef every day. Let's think the thing over. The boy remembers his incarnations." "Does he know that?" said Grish Chunder, quietly, swinging his legs as he sat on my table.
I began to tell the story of Charlie in English, but Grish Chunder put a question in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally in the tongue best suited for its telling. After all it could never have been told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to time, and then came up to my rooms where I finished the tale. "Beshak," he said, philosophically.
Soured, old, worn with heat and cold, he waited till he should be entitled to sufficient pension to keep him from starving. 'Tallantire, said he, disregarding Grish Chunder De, 'come outside. I want to speak to you. They withdrew. 'It's this, continued Curbar.
It was almost as good, said these scamps, as riding with Curbar after evasive Afghans. Each invention kept the hearer at work for half an hour on telegrams which the sack of Delhi would hardly have justified. To every power that could move a bayonet or transfer a terrified man, Grish Chunder De appealed telegraphically.
The adventures of a Viking had been written many times before; the history of a Greek galley-slave was no new thing, and though I wrote both, who could challenge or confirm the accuracy of my details? I might as well tell a tale of two thousand years hence. The Lords of Life and Death were as cunning as Grish Chunder had hinted.
It was a carefully thought-out speech, which would have been very valuable had not his third sentence begun with three innocent words, 'Hamara hookum hai It is my order. Then there was a laugh, clear and bell-like, from the back of the big tent, where a few border landholders sat, and the laugh grew and scorn mingled with it, and the lean, keen face of Debendra Nath De paled, and Grish Chunder turning to Tallantire spake: 'YOU you put up this arrangement. Upon that instant the noise of hoofs rang without, and there entered Curbar, the District Superintendent of Police, sweating and dusty.
Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves. But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to Sachi Durpan, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates.