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CHAPTER V
MRS. BUNNY DOUBTS

On Sundays the carved blackwood furniture in the Bunny's drawing-room emerged from its weekly suit of holland and shone resplendent in red satin upholstery. Mr. Bunny had exchanged his boots for a pair of list slippers, and was seated in a straight-backed chair, his spectacles pushed on to his forehead. He was a little ill-tempered at having had to take that long road home, and regretted that he had not taken out his brownberry. It was just this point, however, that he was unwilling to concede to Elder Bullin. In a recent argument Bunny maintained that it was flying in the face of divine law to work a horse on a Sunday. The elder held more practical opinions on the subject, and there had almost been an open rupture. Since that time, however, Bunny walked to church on the Sabbath, but was beginning to regret his line of action. He was not a young man, and adipose tissue had increased with his years. It irritated him to see the elder pass him with his pair of katty-war horses. Bunny had only one. The irritation he felt, however, was equalled by the sense of satisfaction that stole over the elder as he passed his opponent engaged in carrying out his convictions. There was a rustle, and Mrs. Bunny came into the room in her black silk dress. She was nearly fifteen years younger than her husband, a somewhat uncommon thing in the class of life to which they belonged, where husband and wife are mostly of the same age, or very near it. Her active habits had, moreover, prevented her from running into flesh as most Eurasian women do. She came into the room briskly, stopped, set some grass in a vase straight, and picking up The Evangelical Record, the organ of the Methodist community, settled herself in a chair opposite Bunny, after giving a satisfied glance round the room.

"Halsa and Mr. Galbraith haven't come in yet?" said Bunny, a tone of inquiry in his voice.

"They'll be in just now," replied his wife, unfolding the sheets of the paper and smiling to herself. She was a cunning little woman, and had long read Galbraith's feelings in his eyes.

"Where's Eddy?" asked the father. Eddy was their only child, a boy about twelve years of age. "I think I'll hear him his chapter," he added.

"Yes-where's the boy? Ed-dee! – Ed-dee!" and Mrs. Bunny cried aloud for her offspring.

There was a patter of footsteps in the hall, a rush up the passage, and Eddy burst into the room.

"Oh, maw!" he exclaimed, "Mr. Galbraith is kissing Aunty Halsa in the garden!"

"What!" shouted Bunny, fairly jumping to his feet.

Mrs. Bunny burst out laughing. "You old goose, wait till they come in, and you'll hear more."

"On the Lord's day, too!" said Bunny, holding up his hands. "And what were you doing in the garden? Have you learned your chapter?"

Eddy shuffled from one leg to the other. "It was very long," he protested with a whimper.

"I'll long you-come with me," and Bunny took Eddy's right ear between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

Eddy set up a dolorous howling, and Mrs. Bunny interposed. "Remember it's Sunday, Tom," she said.

"Oh-here you are," she added, as Galbraith and Halsa came into the room. Eddy seized his opportunity, and made a run for it.

Galbraith came forward at once, leading Halsa by the hand.

"Mr. Bunny," he said, "I have asked Halsa to be my wife, and she has said-"

"Yes-I knew she would," and Mrs. Bunny kissed Halsa, who blushed and trembled very much.

Mr. Bunny shook hands alternately with Halsa and Galbraith.

"I am very glad," he said. "I didn't think of this; but I am very glad."

After a while Galbraith left. It was agreed that the engagement should be given out at the next meeting of the Council of the Tabernacle, which was to be held in a few days.

"But Eddy knows all about it," said Mrs. Bunny, and Halsa blushed furiously, while Galbraith looked helplessly around.

"I don't think Eddy will say much after I have spoken to him," said Bunny; "and, Galbraith, don't forget that you dine here to-night."

They all walked home after the evening service, and dined quietly and happily together. When the time came for Galbraith to go, Halsa walked with him to the gate. They lingered for a moment there together.

"Good-night, John." She raised her face to his, and he kissed her softly.

"You do not regret?" asked Galbraith, and for answer Halsa kissed him of her own accord. He turned at last, and vanished into the gloom.

That night when they retired to rest, and Bunny and his wife had read a chapter of the big leather-covered Bible, which lay on a small table in their bedroom, Mrs. Bunny turned to her husband.

"Tom," she said, "what if all this should end badly? I am frightened now."

"Why should it end badly?" and Bunny wiped his spectacles carefully and folded them into their case.

"I am afraid now-I don't know why. Why don't you tell me all about Halsa? You never have."

"There's not much to tell. You knew Stephen Lamport, my cousin, when he married Halsa six years ago, and we went on board the Petrel and met them. You know what a scoundrel Stephen was. He led her an awful life for six years, and then deserted her before that last voyage of his to the Mauritius, when the Mahi went down with all on board. Lamport was a big blackguard, but he is dead now."

"What if Stephen is not dead?"

"Not dead-that's nonsense. But it's half-past ten, and I'm going to bed."

Nevertheless Maggie Bunny lay awake late that night. What if Stephen Lamport should not be dead? she kept ever thinking to herself.

At last she stole out of bed and prayed in the dim light for Halsa and Galbraith. When she rose she felt comforted and refreshed. She stole back slowly; Bunny was asleep, and she looked at his face.

"He is a good man," she murmured; "but-"

CHAPTER VI
MASTER EDWARD BUNNY

Mr. Sarkies lived with his widowed mother and an unmarried aunt, an elderly spinster, in a small house behind that occupied by the Bunnys. The family were of Armenian descent, although they were unwilling to own the fact. Wherever they went, however, they bore the cachet of their origin with them in their noses, the insignia of race bestowed upon them by Providence. When the wave of religious enthusiasm swept over Bombay it caught up among other flotsam the Sarkies family. The head of the house died shortly after this event, making a most edifying end. He left a little money, and his son was educated as well as it was possible for a man of his class, and was now an assistant accountant in the great firm of Apcoon Brothers, and in receipt of a salary of about two hundred pounds a year. Of a light, volatile character by nature, the strain of having to live under the restraints of the sect to which he belonged was sometimes too much for Sarkies, and he often broke out occasionally, as on the memorable Sunday when the elder fell foul of him, with disastrous results to himself. He was idolized by his mother and his aunt, and was a contributor to the Poet's Corner of the Bombay Bouncer. He had been much touched by the emotion displayed by Lizzie Bullin when the elder attacked him. He sat up half the night pouring his feelings into verse. He rose early, and copied the verses out neatly on a piece of bright pink Baskeville paper, with a blue J. S. in rustic letters on the top. This he folded carefully in an envelope, but did not address it. "Don't want rows," he said emphatically to himself. His excitement was so great that he contented himself with about one-third of his usual quantity of curry for breakfast, and, entering his buggy, a legacy from his father, in which an old flea-bitten Arab worked loyally, he drove toward his place of business.

"Mind and come back earlee, Jimmee!" screamed his aunt after him.

"Yes, auntee," and the buggy rattled out of the gate on to the road, a cloud of dust rising behind it.

He had not gone far when he saw Eddy Bunny before him, walking to school, a satchel full of books swinging in his hand. A happy thought struck Sarkies; Eddy Bunny attended the High School, where both boys and girls were taught, in different classes, however. Now Sarkies knew that a small sister of Lizzie's was also a pupil at the school. If he could only induce Eddy to give the verses to Florry they would be sure to reach safely. He pulled up, therefore.

"Hallo, Eddy!"

"Hallo!" shouted back the boy, making a shambling sort of salute.

"Want a lift? – drive you to school."

"Orright," and Eddy climbed in.

"When I grow up I'm going to get a buggy better than this."

Sarkies felt a little nettled, but made no reply. He hit the horse smartly, and the beast kicked up its heels, and then went on.

"I say, give me the whip."

"Here you are; and look here, Eddy, I want you to do something for me."

"Aw!"

"Do you know Florry Bullin?"

"She's my sweetheart," replied Eddy; "I'm going to marry her when I grow up."

Better and better, thought Sarkies. "Well, look here, Eddy: Lizzie is my sweetheart, and I want to marry her."

"Then you are not going to marry Aunty Halsa? But she wouldn't marry you; she is going to marry Mr. Galbraith."

"What!" Sarkies pulled the reins in and stopped the horse.

"Yes. What'er you stopping for?" – chick, slish-and Eddy used the whip with all his little might.

"Are you sure of this?" asked Sarkies, as they moved on.

"Yes; paw said he'd lick me if I spoke about it."

"Well, look here, Eddy; I want you to give a letter I have to Lizzie; give it to Florry, and tell her to give it. I will give you a ru-no, eight annas, if you do this, and mind and keep quiet about it, or I'll tell that you spoke about Aunty Halsa."

"Give me the eight annas," said Eddy, stretching out his disengaged hand.

They had reached the school gate by this time.

"All right; get down first."

Eddy descended, and held out a small paw, into which Sarkies dropped the coin.

"Quick!" said Eddy, "the bell is ringing. Give me the letter."

Sarkies handed him the note. "Be careful," he said, and Eddy, nodding, turned back in the direction of the school. He had not gone ten yards, however, when he stopped suddenly.

"Mr. Sarkies!" he shouted.

"What is it?"

"Oh! I heard paw tell maw that you are to be turned out of church-wot fun!" He turned again and ran down the road toward the school.

Sarkies was taken aback. He had no idea that the elder meant to carry his threat out.

"Damfool!" he burst out savagely and loudly, for there was no danger of being overheard. Having relieved his feelings in this manner, he urged the old Arab forward, and the buggy once more joggled down the road.

It was not until the half-hour's recess that Eddy obtained an opportunity to deliver the note. He pulled out of his satchel, which hung on a peg in the veranda of the school, a brown paper parcel containing his lunch-egg sandwiches. Clutching this in one hand, he made his way to the back garden of the school, and found Flora Bullin there. It was their trysting place.

"Have a sweet?" she asked, handing him a lozenge which had become rather damp and limp in her hand.

"Lozengers-eh!" said Eddy, and transferred the delicate morsel to his mouth.

"I say," he said, "that's nice." He took a huge bite out of one of his egg sandwiches and began to speak again, with his mouth full.

"I say, Florry, Jim Sarkies is sweet on Lizzie."

"Lizzie is a horrid cat," replied Florry, as she soberly chose a sweet for herself out of a glass bottle. "She pinched me-awfool, last night, as I lay awake and listened. See there," and Florry bared a small arm showing the blue marks of a finger and thumb.

Eddy examined it gravely. "How did you get caught?" he inquired-"laff?"

"Yes."

"Well, you are a muff. I never get caught that way."

"Oh, but you're a boy!"

"Yes; when I'm a man I'm going to marry you-do you hear that?"

Florry nodded. "All right," she said. "What did Jimmee say about Lizzie?"

"Oh! he gave me-a-hm-no-he gave me a letter for Lizzie, and I promised to give it to you to give to her, y'know."

"Where's the letter? – give it to me."

Eddy pulled out of his pocket the envelope, now soiled and grimy from contact with a peg-top, a bit of native sweetmeat, and the leather pouch of his catapult.

"Here 'tis," he said; "you'll give it to Lizzie?"

Florry took the letter carefully. "It's very dirty," she said, as she slipped it into her pocket. There was a silence of about a minute, during which time Eddy finished the remainder of his sandwiches.

"Well," he said, "I'm off to bowl a little; you girls are no use-can't do anything."

"Stop a minute, Eddy. Lizzie is a cat. She don't like you neither. Wouldn't it be fun to give this letter to paw?"

"Urn," reflected Eddy, "Lizzie pinched you. I won't have anybody pinching you, y'know. I'm going to marry you when I grow up. Serve Jimmy Sarkies right, too," he added, suddenly brightening up-"awful sneak. Yes, leave it on your paw's table, and say nothing. I'm off now, only ten minutes left."

"Look here, Eddy."

"Oh, bother! what's it now?"

"Only this. I might like to marry some one else, you know, when I grow up. Ta-ta." She blew a kiss at him, and was gone.

Eddy thrust his hands into his pockets and looked moodily after her. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. "It's Billy Bunder," he said, striking his clenched fist into his open palm-"only wait till I catch him-"

Clang, clang, went the school bell. The recess was over.

CHAPTER VII
DUNGAREE'S BELT

Digby Street, so named after a former governor of the presidency, is not more than three miles from the tabernacle. Probably in no part of the world does vice cover itself with so hideous a garb as here. An atmosphere of evil hangs over the dingy houses, packed closely to each other, whose inhabitants follow nameless occupations. When the night comes the street lamps shine on strange scenes. In the day all is silent as the grave. At the corner of the street is a small house. A faded sign-board, with the words "Hotel Metropole" in yellow letters on a blue field, explains its character. The landlord is a Parsee, or fire-worshipper, who has added an English word to his Eastern name, and is known to his customers, and to the police, as Kavasji Pain-killer. Mine host stands at the open entrance to his house. A misshapen figure, with dull eyes and bloated features, he reminds one of the strange bird-eating spiders of the forests of the East and West Indies.

As this man gazes aimlessly down the road, he sees a few dim figures flitting in front of him. They move on rapidly for a few yards and stop. Suddenly there is a flash of light above them, and as each street lamp is lit, a small halo is formed in the evil night haze now beginning to envelop the street. It is not yet time, however, for the inhabitants to awaken from their drunken slumbers. It is later on that the lost legion rises.

As the figures disappeared from view the landlord turned slowly and moved into the bar-room, where there was a thick odour of stale liquor and staler tobacco. The room was empty, save for the figure of a man lying asleep at a small marble-topped table, his head resting on his arms. From a smaller room beyond, the door of which was closed, came the sound of voices, and now and then an oath, or a hoarse laugh. Kavasji made a movement as if to approach the door, but changing his mind passed behind the bar, and settling himself into a cane chair, dozed off comfortably.

In the meantime the conversation in the next room grew louder, and apparently more mirthful. There were two men there, sitting at a table, over which a well-thumbed pack of cards was scattered in some confusion. The room was littered with the débris from empty pipes and the remains of half-burnt matches. A reflecting lamp, glaring from the wall, exactly opposite the door, threw out the figures in strong relief.

"And so, messmate, I scooped in the dust-every dollar of it."

And the speaker, a tall, powerful man, whose shirt-sleeves, pulled up to the elbow, showed the tattoo marks on his arms, brought his fists on the table with a crash that made the glasses clink.

"It was hellish cute," said his companion, as he leaned back and laughed heartily, showing an even row of strong white teeth through the masses of red hair with which the lower portion of his face was covered. "I don't know a man, Dungaree," he added, "who could have done it save yourself."

The giant grinned in response to the compliment, and, pulling out a jack-knife, began to pare some tobacco from a twist lying on the table beside him.

"That," said he, nodding his head at the knife as he finished the operation, "was the tickler."

"Rayther light for the work," said the red-haired man, as he picked the knife up and poised it in his hand.

"There's the weight behind it," answered Dungaree Bill, puffing away at his short pipe.

"True, but I prefer a brace and bit. I did something like that myself, 'bout-let me see-six years ago, I think; but it don't matter. Whole shipload went down. No time to lower boats, except captain's gig. Lord, how I did laugh! You know the old trick-sabe?"

"And blowed the oof after," laughed his companion.

"Not much," was the reply. "Some shad-belly of a lawyer began to ask questions-curse him! – and the work-well done, too-went for nothing."

"And you?"

"Went under."

"And serve you right for a chowder-headed clam. I was wise enough to take my share in advance-and stick to it, too." The giant tapped his hand over his waist as he spoke, and reaching for the bottle began to pour out another drink for himself.

"God's curse," said he, "there's nothing in here."

The red-haired man's small eyes were twinkling under the skull-cap pulled well over his brows.

"I'll play you for another," he said.

"Done with you; but let us have the drink first."

"All right; what shall it be?"

"Monkeys," replied Dungaree, "and let their tails be curled. After this I'm off-we sail with the tide."

The red-haired man rose from his chair, and, opening the door, passed into the bar-room. A hanging lamp was burning in the centre, and Kavasji slept peacefully. Walking with a slightly unsteady gait he reached the bar, and, leaning with both hands on it, shouted out:

"Two monkeys; and mind you, Kavasji, lift up your elbow."

Kavasji scrambled from his chair, and, placing two tumblers on the table, half filled them with rum. He then turned to a rack where there were a number of bottles of aerated water. As his back was turned the man at the bar pulled out a small phial containing a colourless liquid, and emptied it into one of the tumblers. He had just time to replace the phial in his pocket when Kavasji turned and filled the glasses with what he called tonic water.

"That'll do, sonny," said the red-haired man, placing some silver coins with a smart click on the bar. "This settles the shot," and seizing a glass in each hand he lurched forward to rejoin his friend. Kavasji tested the coins carefully with his teeth and rang them on a table. Then opening a drawer, he shut them up with sundry companions.

The man sleeping at the table rose, and, after staring vacantly about him for a moment, walked out slowly into the street. As his friend entered the room Dungaree Bill took one of the "monkeys" from his outstretched hand. They, clinked the glasses together above and below.

"Here's luck," said Bill. The other nodded, and they drained the glasses.

"Tails curly enough?" asked the red-haired man.

"I guess so," said Dungaree, wiping his mouth with the back of his hairy hand.

"And now," said he, "for the game."

They arranged the cards; Dungaree cut, and the red-haired man dealt.

After a few rounds the effect of the drug began to tell. The giant's head sank upon his breast, and the little man's eyes twinkled with a vicious glee.

"Wake up, Dungaree," he said; "you're asleep, man."

"By God," said the other, "you've-"

His head dropped once more, and the long, powerful arms hung listlessly by his side.

The red-haired man had started from his seat at Dungaree's words, and in his hand held an open knife, which he had drawn like lightning.

He heaved a sigh of relief as he saw Dungaree's head sink back.

Then rapidly approaching him, he rifled him with a practised hand. He undid the canvas belt from his waist, and felt it heavy as he raised it and transferred it to his own person.

He then moved toward the door, but a sudden thought struck him, and he returned. He took up Dungaree's knife from the table.

"Might as well ease him of this," he said; "he will do somebody a hurt when he awakens."

Opening the door, he stepped into the barroom, and, reeling up to a table near the door, called for another drink. Kavasji once more turned his back, and with the noiseless rapidity of a cat the robber vanished into the street, which was already beginning to awaken.

He dashed down a small alley, and only stopped after he had run for about half an hour. "I guess," said he, "Steve Lamport, you are born again." Then turning down a broad street, he walked slowly forward in the direction of the nearest railway station.