Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 13, 1923 — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

A488 was perfectly safe. He himself was armed with a revolver, standing guard outside her door. Downstairs was a surgeon-major representing not only the prestige, but the power of the Indian Army. But as the night wore on and the moon cast lengthen- ing shadows across the roof and upon the dim white sand of the compound, Dun- boyne began to feel that the little room where Diane Herries was sleeping was sur- rounded by presences. He saw figures sneaking through the mango tope over the wall of the garden— shadows or Rhesus monkeys or men—he knew not which. He saw black slender forms like gibbons swinging down from the ‘tamarinds and scampering to the seclusion first of the white walled go-down, then of the yawning well, then of a young banyan tree which grew scrambling over the jungle road. Part of these visions Dunboyne at- tributed to his own dreams—he caught himself dozing even while he walked. His fatigue was conquering him—he felt drugged. The musk of the jungle wind soothed him. For a while his ears buzzed sleepily with the droning sound of insects, the dreary flap and squeak of the punkah in Diane’s room, the murmuring of dry tamarind leaves, the soughing of palms. Then the long, almost human howl of a jackal-dog brought him sharp awake. He hurried to Diane’s door. She was in the room, he could see, although the moon- light had passed her bed. He turned again to the open and for the first time noticed a presence—a bundle of rags, huddled against the lime wall. Dunboyne stared fiercely. This was no dream, he knew. He walked cautiously toward it, stopped, drew his revolver. The moonlight cast its shadow on the white lime —a turbaned head. Dunboyne stepped closer, but the figure remained as motionless as a Buddhist idol. Another step. The man was not asleep. The black eyes glittered. Then a smile. “What the devil are you doing up here? You damned thug!” “ T am the chuprassi, Heaven-born!”’ the man replied. He moved for the first time, and the movement was a complete obeis- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ance so that his forehead touched the tar. “I am watching over our guest—the beau- tiful miss-sahib.”’ “You’re a robber—that’s what you are!” Dunboyne snapped back.. “‘ Stand up and show me your filthy face.” The servant crawled to his knees. ‘“ I am not a robber, Heaven born, but a c/iu- prassi to wipe the dust from your feet. I am the son of two pigs! I am your slave!” Dunboyne drew back his foot and gave the man such a kick as to send him rolling as far as the top of the chunamed steps. ‘You come down and show yourself to the caretaker! And if you are not the chuprassi of this house, I’ll empty the six plunks of lead I hold in my hand and then throw your carcass out for the kites to eat!” ‘My carcass is not worthy to be eaten by kites, O Twice-born!” the man pleaded. “ Let the crows eat me—they are as vile as I, and my carcass cannot defile them.” Dunboyne had braced himself for a sec- ond kick, but intuitively he changed his mind. This man had one trait which marked him apart from most chuprassis. When he had first felt Dunboyne’s kick he had not yelped out the usual dismal cry of ““ Ayi! Ayi!” Instead he had smiled, and Dunboyne, now that his first moment of rage had passed, recalled that a strange green light had flashed out of the man’s eyes. He was not exactly the sort of chu- prassi whom it would be wise to kick twice. The chuprassi waited expectantly for that second touch of the Britisher’s boot, and then observing it was not forthcoming he turned and vanished down the stairs. Dunboyne followed, his revolver still in his hand. —_———_— CHAPTER III. GONE! N the chicken yard—a flat space between the bungalow and the go-down—Dun- boyne collared his victim. Powerful as his body seemed, the man did not protest, but submitted to being dragged up to the veranda and then into the dining room. Major Kesh had fallen upon the grasshop- CORMICLOOOKS (C@)