Adventure Magazine Cover, November 10, 1924 — page 127: what you’re looking at

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

Om ““Never mind.” ‘“‘Show me your credentials.” “At your risk! Come to the telegraph office if you like and watch me get you trans- ferred to the salt mines! You'll enjoy a patrol up there—you’ll get one newspaper a month!” ‘At least tell me your name.” “My number is 9o03,”’ said Ommony. His number on the secret service roster was not 903; but one does not squander truth too lavishly on men who will surely repeat 1t. He was not anxious that McGregor should have an inkling of his whereabouts. The mere mention of a number was enough; the policemen walked out abusive of the Secret Service, conscious that the “Bhat-Brahman” was grinning mischievously at their backs. The lama saw but said nothihg. That night he directed the departure more leisurely than usual, as if satisfied that Ommony had made him safe from the police; but from that time on he kept him- self more than ever aloof, and during two whole months of wandering Ommony did not succeed in having two hundred words with him. HOWEVER, the lama and his chela =e reciprocated in due time. They . reached a town in the Central Prov- inces where not even certified and pedigreed Bhats would have been welcome, and an uncertified one who traveled in doubtful company was in danger of his life. A com- mittee of “twice-born”’ demanded his pres- ence for investigation in a temple crypt, and Ommony’s retort discourteous, to the effect that he recognized no_ superiors, aroused such anger that the self-appointed judges of sanctity resorted to the oldest tactics in the world. Those who hate Brahmans the most are most amenable to skilful irritation by them and most careful to insist after the event that Brahmans had nothing to do with it; so it is just where the Brahmans are most detested that they are most difficult to bring to book. And a mob can gather in India more swiftly than a typhoon at sea. It was a hot, flat, treeless city, as unlove- ly as the commercialism that had swept over it these latter years was cruel. The streets ran more nearly at right angles than is the rule in India, and the temples faced the streets with an air of having been built 125 by one and the same contractor, and a cheap one. The quarters the lama’s party occupied consisted of a hideously ugly modern theater that backed on a cellular stack of ill-built living-rooms, the whole surrounded by four streets, three of which were as narrow as village lanes. That night the packed audience was restless, and whenever the saddhu spoke his lines there were noisy interruptions, cat-calls, jeers. Some one threw a rotten orange that missed Ommony but threw Diana into a frenzy, and for minutes at a time it looked as if the curtain would have to be rung down before the close; but the lama’s quiet voice from behind the well and from under the throne kept up a steady flow of reassurance inaudible beyond the footlights: “Patience! Forbearance! There is strength in calmness. Proceed! Proceed! You are a king, Maitraya; you are not af- fected by ungentleness! Proceed!” But even San-fun-ho’s long spéech was received with irritation; some one in au- thority had told the crowd it was a trick to destroy their sacred religion. The chela’s voice rang through the theater and over- came the murmurings, but the hymn to Arjuna that followed was drowned in a babeling tumult, as half of the audience poured in panic out of one door while a mob stormed another, breaking it down and surging in with a roar that shook the theater. The stage hands stripped the actors faster than usual and herded them out through the back door to the living-rooms. They tried to make Ommony go, too, but he fought them off when they seized him by the arms; he had hard work to keep Diana from using her teeth to protect him while he hurried into his Bhat-Brahman clothes, wondering what solution the lama would discover for this predicament. “Tl bet the old sportsman won’t surren- der me to the mob!” he muttered. ‘If I live through this, I’ll know exactly what to think of him. If he’s—’’ But there was no word for what he might be. | The crowd was yelling ‘““The Bhat! The Bhat! The spy! The impostor! Bring out the unclean ape who poses as a twice- born!’ Two scared looking ‘“‘constabecls’’ who had appeared from somewhere, stand- ing at either corner of the stage with their backs to the curtain, were valiantly CO MICLOOKS (© 5}