But one evening, a sultry August evening when the shed was like an oven,
and, bathed in sweat, he felt utterly limp and depressed, he asked the
Babu in English whether anyone had ever escaped out of Angria's clutches.
Surendra Nath Chuckerbutti glanced anxiously around, as if fearful that
the others might understand. But they lay listless on their charpoys;
they knew no English, and there was nothing in Desmond's tone to quicken
their hopelessness.
"No, sahib," said the Bengali; "such escapade, if successful, is beyond
my ken. There have been attempts; cui bono? Nobody is an anna the better.
Nay, the last state of such misguided men is even worse; they die
suffering very ingenious torture."
Desmond had been amazed at the Babu's command of English until he learned
that the man was an omnivorous reader, and in his leisure at Calcutta had
spent many an hour in poring over such literature as his master's scanty
library afforded, the works of Mr. Samuel Johnson and Mr. Henry Fielding
in particular.
At this moment Desmond said no more, but in the dead of night, when all
were asleep, he leaned over to the Babu's charpoy and gently nudged him.
"Surendra Nath!" he whispered.
"Who calls?" returned the Babu.
"Listen. Have you yourself ever thought of escaping?"
"Peace and quietness, sir. He will hear."
"Who?"
"The Gujarati, sir--Fuzl Khan."
"But he doesn't understand. And if he did, what then?"
"He was the single man, positively unique, who was spared among six
attempting escape last rains.
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