Author of "In Old Madras," "Lismoyle," etc.
LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW—E.C.
"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Abooabout the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?"
An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as togetherthey—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 uncompromisingrejoinder. "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 inhis story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of theestates 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—theberry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I've heard that lameMaistrey—whose ancestors lived here when these hills were openedup—say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a meresong, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains—runright down to the low country, where there are old workings, smotheredin jungle."
"Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I've heard these fool stories, but there'snothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzlingsubject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate ofammonia.
The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up thesteep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated onthe 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 andthirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardlessface), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clotheswere decent—which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt,wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a batteredtopee, completed his kit.
Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely investedpart of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had therebyprovided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes—a good, honestfellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spokeTamil 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 remarkablyclear idea of the importance of appearances—especially of his ownappearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode along-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouragingname of "Mad Molly."
Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for theArmy, but was "spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared tohave become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end tofurther efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him tothe Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career,he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year'sapprenticeship, 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 wasmaster. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays—oh, it wasnot all "coffee"—and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras,and fashionable—alas! rather remote—hill stations; he got a bit ofshooting, was making money, and, on the