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WHERE THE BABOO LOST OUT.
“Say, Chick, what kind of a hang-out is this we’re in?” asked Patsy Garvan, as he surveyed his surroundings some hours after they had alighted from the train up in the hill country. “I don’t see much besides trees, muddy
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water, and monkeys. I bet there are plenty of snakes, too, but they are under the leaves on the ground, I suppose. Is this still India?”
“Yes. We are getting toward the borders of Nepal,” answered Chick.
“Come again? Is there any difference between Nepal and the rest of this forsaken country? Gee! I’d——”
“Keep quiet, Patsy!” warned Chick. “Jai Singh speaks as good English as we do. He doesn’t like to hear any reflections on his country.”
“Does he belong to Nepal?” asked the irrepressible Patsy.
“He’s a Hindu, and the whole of India is sacred to him,” was Chick’s grave reply. “He’s got the boat ready. We’d better be getting over there.”
It was a small town at which the railroad had come to an end—the extremity of a branch of the main line—and if it had not been for Jai Singh, there would have been difficulty in going any farther.
Hindus of various castes were here, most of them of inferior kind, and they were not disposed to be friendly.
Like all natives of India in out-of-the-way places, they were ever on the lookout for alms, and Nick Carter, like most Americans, would have dealt with them on the basis of many tips if he had been left to himself.
As it was, Jai Singh, with his noble appearance and the prestige he derived from high caste, made the natives get around at his will. He gave a few annas here and there, because you could not deal with men of this kind in any other way, but his tips were never large, and he ordered them about in the offhand manner that had made him a power among his own people.
“A boat that will hold ten men,” had been his order to a surly looking native who stood near the platform when the train came to a halt. “Quick!”
“I have no boat,” had been the short reply.
“Get one! And listen to me, dog of an unbeliever!” added Jai Singh. “If it isn’t ready before the sun goes down behind those palms yonder, why——”
He finished the admonition by raising his spear and flourishing it with a graceful dexterity that the other man understood at once.
The boat was ready at the time set, and Jai Singh superintended the putting into it of such stores as he thought they might need on their journey into the wild country they contemplated invading.
Rice, canned meats and fish, fruits, a bag of hard biscuits, and several skins of water were put in the boat.
“What’s the idea of putting water in the boat?” inquired Patsy. “Isn’t there enough in this river for us to drink?”
“Poison to white men,” replied Jai Singh curtly. “None must drink of the river.”
“It does look kind of yellow,” observed Patsy. “Thick, too! Still, that might not be so bad if a fellow happened to be hungry. Meat and drink all in one—like an oyster stew. I don’t know but what——”
“Patsy!” interrupted Nick Carter.
“On deck!” responded Patsy, with a facetious military salute.
“Please reserve your comments on things in general till we’re on the boat and out of this village,” ordered the detective, rather sternly.
“Gee! What’s biting the boss?” whispered Patsy to Chick, as Nick Carter turned away.
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“You’re liable to offend somebody about here if you talk too much about the river,” answered Chick. “This is a branch of the Ganges, the most sacred stream in India. The chief doesn’t want a fight on his hands just because you talk too much.”
“I wouldn’t say another word if the Ganges got up on its tail and gave me back slack from here to—to—wherever we’re going,” replied Patsy, who was always bound to have the closing speech if he could get it.
The boat was a large, clumsy-looking craft, which would hold all their party, with the baggage, without overcrowding. Moreover, it was not so clumsy as it appeared, for afterward, when the four natives under Jai Singh’s orders settled down to work with their oars, they showed that they could make good time even with a sluggish current against them and in the oppressive heat that even as the sun approached the west, made the white men gasp for breath.
They were not started yet, however.
Jai Singh, Nick Carter, Jefferson Arnold, and Chick were all on the rough landing stage, looking at the boat, to see that everything was stowed in that might be required, when there was a shout behind them. Half a dozen natives were stalking in their direction, and there was an indescribable air of official determination pervading the whole procession.
“Hello!” ejaculated Arnold. “What’s broken loose here? What do those black scalawags think they want?”
“Let the sahib keep quiet,” requested Jai Singh, in a low voice. “It is I who will talk to them.”
“Just as you like,” returned the millionaire, with a shrug. “I’m quite willing to keep out of the powwow, so long as it does not hold us up on our journey after my poor boy.”
“We shan’t be held up,” put in Nick Carter. “I’ll promise you that.”
Jefferson Arnold nodded.
“Stop!”
Jai Singh, with upraised hand, shouted this peremptory order. At the same time he allowed the butt of his lance to drop with a loud bang upon the planks under his feet.
All the men stopped but the one in the lead.
Nick Carter recognized him as the surly fellow they had met when they got off the train, and who afterward had provided them with their boat.
The rascal had demanded enough money to have bought such a boat twice over in India. But on Nick Carter’s whispering that it was the best way to avoid delay, Jefferson Arnold had paid it without demur.
“I could get it for you at about half that price,” Nick had added. “But it would mean several hours of bargaining, and that would keep us here till the morning. It is desirable to get away to-night.”
Jefferson Arnold would rather have paid four times the worth of the boat than be kept another twelve hours in this village.
“What do you want?” demanded Jai Singh now, as the surly native stalked forward.
Nick Carter observed that the native had put on clean white raiment, and that there was a ruby holding together the upper garment on his chest. His turban was new and white, and there were more gold anklets and bracelets on him than had been there when they first saw him.
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“Who’s the pretty boy with the curtain rings on him?” observed Chick.
“Hum! He is an official of some rank,” whispered Nick Carter.
“Yes, and he’s dolled himself up so that we shall know it,” was the assistant’s smiling reply. “He might be a rajah or a begum or something of that kind, judging by his manner.”
“I want pay for the boat,” returned the man, answering Jai Singh’s question. “I am Baboo Punyah.”
“Say, Chick!” called out Patsy Garvan, from the boat, in a loud whisper. “What in blazes is a baboo?”
“It means ‘gentleman,’” replied Chick quickly. “Shut up, will you?”
“If that’s what it means, I don’t believe that guy’s it,” grumbled Patsy. “I thought it was some kind of monkey.”
“You have been paid,” was all Jai Singh condescended to reply to the demand of Baboo Punyah. “Go back! We proceed on our way in our own boat.”
But Baboo Punyah, having by this time eight or ten natives behind him on whom he believed he could rely at a pinch, was not to be lightly dismissed.
“The pay for that boat is much more than I have received. It will be two hundred rupees more or you cannot go!” he shouted, extending both hands impressively. “I wait for the money.”
Standing there, his arms folded across his breast, his gold anklets and bracelets, as well as the jewels in his turban and at his breast, glistening in the red light of the dying sun, Baboo Punyah was a dignified figure.
He had the attitude of one who would be as immovable from the position he had taken as the great Rock of Trichinoply itself.
But it is often insignificant things that take the dignity out of the most determined of men. It was so in this case.
Captain, the big bloodhound, had been loaded into the boat, and was lying comfortably in the bottom, with his head between the knees of Patsy Garvan.
Whether Patsy whispered in his ear, or perhaps gave him a sly hoist behind will ever remain in doubt.
What is certain is that Captain betrayed a sudden interest in Baboo Punyah which made Patsy chuckle silently, but which was not observed by any one else.
Getting on his feet, the dog knocked Patsy backward, and contemplated Baboo Punyah as if he were some new production that had never come within his range of vision before, and was somewhat of a puzzle to his canine mind.
“Get him, Captain!” whispered Patsy.
This was enough for Captain. He had no particular grudge against Baboo Punyah, but he did want to know something more about this loud-talking Hindu.
What he did was to jump ashore and carom into the baboo with such violence as to knock him over on his back.
Nor was this all. Captain did not want to hurt the man, but his play was too rough to please the dignified native. He aimed a kick at the dog, but missed him.
“Look out, Chick!” shouted Patsy, standing up in the boat. “Don’t let him hurt Captain.”
It was evident that Baboo Punyah had for the moment forgotten his intention to demand more pay for the boat in his determination to deal with the bloodhound.
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Nick Carter had been watching the little comedy with a grave smile. He would have interfered to keep the dog away, only that he felt the Hindu deserved some punishment for his bare-faced effort at extortion.
But when he saw Baboo Punyah draw a keen dagger from the folds of his white garment, there was no time for more quiet contemplation.
The knife had just come clear of the fellow’s clothing, and the long dark fingers were clutching the ivory handle savagely, as he held the point above Captain’s head.
Another instant and the dagger would have come down with a powerful stroke that might have brought it into the bloodhound’s heart.
But Nick Carter was too quick for the fellow.
With a swinging cuff, he caught Baboo Punyah on the side of the head and sent him scurrying along the platform. Then, without giving the man time to recover, Nick took him by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his white linen breeches, and swung him into the air.
There was a terrified yell from the natives in the background—a shout that was in perfect chorus—but they did not attempt to help their leader.
Nick Carter had Baboo Punyah straight out above his head, holding him there a moment, as if trying to decide what he should eventually do with him.
He made up his mind quickly. With a mighty heave, he sent the Hindu flying over his head, backward and headfirst into the river.
Luckily, it was fairly deep where Baboo Punyah plunged in, and the worst he suffered was the wetting.
Jai Singh dragged him out as he came to the side of the river, the yellow stain of the water marking his white clothing.
Without saying anything more, the disgruntled Hindu walked away, taking his friends with him, and there was nothing more said about additional pay for the boat. The ducking had settled that bit of extortion.
As the four oarsmen began to urge the boat upstream, Nick Carter, sitting in the stern, by the side of Jai Singh, who steered, saw that most of the inhabitants of the village was staring after them curiously.
“I wonder how much those fellows know about Leslie Arnold’s disappearance,” muttered the detective. “Well, whatever they may know, they will not tell. Fortunately, I think we can do without their help.”
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