Croker Given in Marriage

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-927-7
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 243 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Excerpt: I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah? An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together they?or rather their horses?toiled up a sharp ascent. Oh yes, I heard him, grunted the other with a shrug. And what did you think, Ted? That the old boy was drunk as usual, was the uncompromising rejoinder. Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out! Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the estates were chock full of gold. Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it, declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade. Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops?the berry, and the nugget! urged his partner. I've heard that lame Maistrey?whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened up?say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains?run right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered in jungle. Bosh! ejaculated Ted, I've heard these fool stories, but there's nothing in them; and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of ammonia.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Croker, B. M.

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
A STRANGER IN THE LAND
"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?" An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together they—or rather their horses—toiled up a sharp ascent. "Oh yes, I heard him," grunted the other with a shrug. "And what did you think, Ted?" "That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out!" "Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the estates were chock full of gold." "Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it," declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade. "Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops—the berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I've heard that lame Maistrey—whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened up—say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains—run right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered in jungle." "Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I've heard these fool stories, but there's nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of ammonia. The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up the steep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated on the western slopes of a hill range, in Southern India. Edward Dawson, the elder of the pair, was a big, loosely put-together man, of five and thirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardless face), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clothes were decent—which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt, wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a battered topee, completed his kit. Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely invested part of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had thereby provided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes—a good, honest fellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spoke Tamil and Canarese, with effective fluency. Nicholas Byng, his companion, cousin, and partner, was a slight, young man, with neat features, quick, bright eyes, and a remarkably clear idea of the importance of appearances—especially of his own appearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode a long-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouraging name of "Mad Molly." Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for the Army, but was "spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared to have become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end to further efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him to the Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career, he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year's apprenticeship, became partner and sub-manager. He liked the life. Teddy, for all his unconventional, "jungly" ways, was a good sort; a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays—oh, it was not all "coffee"—and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras, and fashionable—alas! rather remote—hill stations; he got a bit of shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet suited him down to the ground. The couple had been to the foot of the ghât on business connected with the transport of their crops; every yard they now travelled carried them further and further from dense, tropical forests, sweltering heat, and swampy valleys, and nearer to the quiet beauty of the grassy uplands. Turning a sharp corner, they debouched into a little glade where three tracks met, and here, with a slight shock of surprise, discovered that prominent figure in early Victorian fiction, known as "a solitary horseman." Dawson, who was still expounding on the scandalous price of bone manure, broke off his sentence with: "I say,—who's this?" "Hello, good afternoon," said the stranger, raising a smart topee, "I heard your voices, and waited. I don't know these parts, and I'm afraid I've lost my bearings." The "lost one" was a well set-up, self-possessed individual, mounted on a fine waler cob, and accompanied by a wiry, and more than half-naked syce. "I expect we will soon put you all right," said Byng,—ever the speaking partner—"Where are you bound for?" "A place called Fairplains; the estate of one James Fletcher." "Then you are just five miles out; you overshot the mark by that native village among the plantain trees, near the bridge. Why didn't you stick to the road?" "Well, I suppose because I'm an adventurous idiot," was the modest reply, "and I was told that a bridle-path cut off seven miles." "So it does,—but it depends upon which bridle-path. This one has put you on, a good ten." "I say, what a confounded nuisance!" exclaimed the wanderer, looking down at his blown, and sweating, steed. "Our place is barely a mile from here," announced Dawson, speaking for the first time. "Come on with us, have a drink, give the gee a feed, and a rub-down, and we will send a coolie to put you on the way to Fairplains—unless you'll stay the night?" he added, with true planter's hospitality. "Thanks awfully, but I'd better shove on. I'll be glad to stop an hour at your diggings, and give the cob a rest—he's pretty well done." "Not the usual 'Hirling,' I see," remarked Byng. "No, I brought him from Cananore; he is awfully soft—that climate is only fit for horned cattle!" "Yes, beastly wet," agreed Byng, his bright eyes taking in the well-knit figure and military bearing of the cob's master. "Your regiment quartered there?" "It is—my name is Mayne—Derek Mayne—an uncle of mine is a pal of Fletcher's, he invited me up for six weeks' shooting—and naturally I came like a shot!" "But Fletcher has gone home—went off ten days ago!" "What do you say?" cried Mayne, reining up his horse. "It's a fact; he has been rather seedy, and ran down to see a doctor in Madras, who ordered him to start then and there for London—it was a case for an immediate operation." "Poor chap! I'm most awfully sorry. Well," after a reflective pause, "I'm in a pretty big hole. I had a line from Fletcher three weeks ago, and I've got my leave all right, and have written to announce my arrival, but the shoot is off! I suppose I must make for one of these hill stations. I can't tell you how I've been looking forward to this shikar trip—my first." "Oh, I expect you will be all right," said Dawson reassuringly; "Fletcher is bound to have left instructions; he is a most reliable old boy. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dawson, and this," waving a huge paw, "is my cousin, Nicholas Byng. We run a coffee estate known as Chicknabullnay,—but called by our neighbours 'The Corner.' He is the ornamental, and I'm the working partner." "Come, I like that!" broke in his cousin: "I live with my nose to the grindstone. I've been on duty since six o'clock this morning; down at Burliar, making a bundobast for our crop." "We would give you some shooting," continued Dawson, "but nothing like what you'd get at Fairplains—that has always had a Shikari owner, who knows the best grounds, and beats in the low country, as well as he knows his A B C, and can call out any amount of good, plucky beaters." "Well, I sincerely hope it will be all right, as you believe, and that the manager has been warned by Fletcher; otherwise, it's no great matter, as I am a complete stranger to them both. I say, what a mixed multitude!" pointing to the pack. "Yes, all sorts and conditions," replied Byng, "and a real good specimen of an average planter's pack, only ours are absolutely healthy—no red mange." "But what variety!" said Mayne, turning in his saddle to survey them. "A fox hound, three beagles, a deer-hound, half a dozen fox terriers, several—any other sort—a bull terrier, and what was once a poodle." "Yes, and the poodle has the brains of the lot. You see how it is; people going home are glad to leave their dogs in a good climate. Most of ours, have a history! The deer-hound was given to me by a girl, the poodle came from a French priest at Pondicherry, the fox-terrier with the black head, belonged to a poor chap who died. They get on together fairly well, all being fond of sport, and they have a rattling good time." "Lucky dogs!" "Yes," put in Dawson, "hunting, drawing sholahs for sambur, and pig, and at home, there are rats and bandicoots. Two dog-boys feed and brush them—and a few live indoors." "A few!" echoed Byng, "make it a dozen! The poodle and fox-terriers,—like the poor,—are always with us, and I've found a couple of beagles in my bed before now, and"—as an old retriever came slowly towards the party, "here comes a pensioner to welcome us. This is Chicknabullnay." For the last quarter of a mile, the journey had been on a well-metalled cart road, and through a crop of dense green coffee bushes; now, a sudden curve brought the back of a long, low bungalow with adjoining gardens, stores, and stables, into sight. As the trio rode down a steep slope, dog-boys, and syces, hurried forward to claim their respective charges. The guest dismounted rather stiffly, and was escorted by Dawson straight through the house, and into the front verandah. Here...