Adventure, February 20, 1922 — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

The Odyssey of Chandar Roy ghostly light came in through the open windows. He reached McLaird’s door and paused to make sure of his grip on the long carving- knife. He stole into the room and stood flattened out against the wall. There was the bed . . . and then: “One move, Chandar Roy, and you’re a d@éad nigger. You’re more clumsy than a fat cow. Drop that knife and stand still,” came McLaird’s voice in unhurried tones. “Don’t you yet know that this darned indi- gestion won’t let me sleep?” The knife clattered to the boards. The man sat up in bed and lit the lamp. By its light the babu saw a vicious-looking blue- black Colt lying on the sheet beside McLaird, and he stood quite still until suddenly the flood-gates broke open and he poured the whole long story of his eventful life into McLaird’s surprized ears. | When he had finished the Australian whistled softly, looking thoughtfully at the babu. “So,” he said, “you are a traitor,” and he lapsed into silence as he bent down to slip on his boots. ‘“‘Come on,” he added, “‘you are a dangerous person to have about the house. If that gendarme had not let his goats stray through my paddocks, I’d hand you over to him now. “Somehow, though, I don’t care for the idea. He’d be too pleased. I'll think it 79 over. You're going to the cellar for to- night.” | And that was the end of Chandar Roy’s career in New Caledonia. Subsequent events were highly irregular and illegal, but everything worked smoothly. A cattle boat carried the downcast and tremulous babu to Brisbane, and a sailing schooner, skippered by McLaird’s cousin, reshipped him as far as Singapore without the incident reaching the notice of the Australian immigration officials. At Singapore, which smelled of home, the babu became hysterical, and it was with the utmost difficulty that he was handed over, sewn in a canvas bag, to a Dutch boat sail- © ing for Calcutta. Here he was set free, and the Machine, which is soulless and never forgets, deftly - caught him without noise or fuss as he hur- ried toward the native quarter. A little later, while several thousand miles away, the people of Pouho prayed to their ancestors that Kwat might be sent them again, Chandar Roy stood at dawn with his back against the blank wall at Khushalgarh. Six well-oiled rifles spat fire, six little whiffs of smoke curled up into the still morning air, and the Sikh band marched the firing party back to barracks to the martial strains of— “Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules. . . .” And Chandar Roy lay dead on the ground - Gomicbooks (E(0)