Adventure, February 20, 1922 — page 79: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Odyssey of Chandar Roy 1 77 collecting the rifles which lay scattered on the ground. These he industriously smashed and bent and twisted, keeping only the firing-pins as proof of his success. His happiness was marred, however, be- cause he found his horse shot through the head by a stray bullet, so he lost no time in shouldering his pack and making off toward the path, for thirty miles separated him from the nearest station, and on foot, in the night, the black fellow might come creeping back—— CHANDAR ROY, no longer a god, but a much terrified babu, hunted in vain for his men, and the next morn- ing, very tired and worn, he trudged along the track intent on reaching the safety of the high hills where he would be among his subjects. After all, thought the babu, if he could get back to Pouho nothing was lost, and his carefully matured plans could still be put into execution. He would lead his people! But he took the wrong road when he reached the summit of the first hills and suddenly found himself headed toward the sea, placid and calm in the distance. He turned back in dismay, trotting heavily in his haste. Chandar Roy negotiated a sharp bend, went up an incline which made him nearly crawl on hands and knees, worked his way round another corner—and came face to face with a white man riding a stocky gray horse with the nonchalance one might ex- pect to see in Central Park or the Bagtor Hunt Club, but not on a rocky ledge five hundred feet above a precipice. Chandar Roy could not catalog this new type. Instead of the customary sun hel- met, he wore a much battered felt hat cocked on the back of his head. His blue eyes sparkled and danced in a round face tanned brown by exposure. He was clad in a collarless shirt open at the throat, his arms were bare to the elbow, and instead of riding breeches and leggings he affected a soiled pair of nondescript trousers tucked into the tops of high-heeled shoes. The horse stopped automatically and its rider looked down at the babu with a grin on his face. For a moment there was silence. Then he pointed at the path, and pointed at the babu, and speaking in perfect English said: “You'll have to turn back unless you can Ae. fly. This is no place for heavy traffic. . But you don’t understand English— Retournez a la vallée,” he finished in exe-— crable French. Now Chandar Roy had no desire to turn — back to the valley, so he an#wered politely: “Tt is important, sar, that I should con- tinue my journey without delay. If I should place myself flatly against this surface, could you not——” | “So you speak English do you? Well, I’ll : say it once more,” man. eyes grew cold. When they reached the bottom of the declivity the rider grew curious. ‘‘Who are you anyway?” he demanded. *T’ve not seen you around here before.’’ The babu saw his great dreams fade and vanish. He tried to lie, but the words died on his lips, for the eyes of the stranger seemed to search his very soul. They were hard, merciless eyes now, compelling the truth. “Sar,” he blurted out, “I am Chandar Roy. For months I served Master Duclos. He made of me a common manual laborer— and I am a trained office clerk.” Hefin- — ished piteously. Light dawned on the white man. He slapped his horse’s neck as he laughed. - “So you are the great black god! Well, believe me, you hide it well. I’ve heard a good deal about you. If the gendarmes get you, you'll go to the Hebrides and die of fever. There’s been more trouble since you went into the hills than I’ve ever known before.” He slid off his horse and stood chuckling, _ his hands on his hips, and Chandar Roy was surprized to see that he was a short little. man barely reaching to his chin. If he could reach his throat—— “No you don’t,” snapped the other. “If you start a rough-house I'll teach you interrupted the white something about fighting you never heard of * before. Dve handled black fellows in Western Australia too long for you to get me. What are you—an American-nigger?”’ odist Mission School, failed for B. A. degree. I have extensive experience of routine office wor “Have Tear Well, that’s fine,” swered the white man. “Perhaps you've heard of me. My nameis McLaird. Now an- “Turn back at once!” and his blue Se “Sar,” answered the dejected babu, “I _ = “am from Calcutta. Educated at the Meth- a: comicbooks.com