"
"And not one of 'em to be trusted, I'll swear. Well, I'll put a crew
aboard to take charge. Come along; there's no time to lose. Colonel Clive
goes to bed early."
"Colonel Clive! Is he here?"
"Yes; arrived from home two days ago. Ah! that reminds me; you're a
Shropshire lad; so's he; do you know him?"
"No, sir; I've seen him; I--I--"
Desmond stammered, remembering his unfortunate encounter with Clive in
Billiter Street.
"Well, well," said the harbor master, with a quizzical look; "you'll see
him again. Come along."
Desmond accompanied Mr. Johnson on shore. A crowd had gathered. There
were Sepoys in turban, cabay {cloak}, and baggy drawers; bearded Arabs;
Parsis in their square caps; and a various assortment of habitues of the
shore--crimps, landsharks, badmashes {bad characters}, bunder {port}
gangs. Seeing Desmond hold his nose at the all-prevailing stench of fish,
Mr. Johnson laughed.
"You'll soon get used to that," he said. "'Tis all fish oil and bummaloes
{small fish the size of smelt, known when dried as 'Bombay duck'} in
Bombay."
Having sent a trustworthy crew on board the Tremukji, the harbor master
led Desmond to his house near the docks. Here, while a native barber
plied his dexterous razor on Desmond's cheeks and chin, Mr. Johnson
searched through a miscellaneous hoard of clothes in one of his capacious
presses for an outfit. He found garments that proved a reasonable fit,
and Desmond, while dressing, gave a rapid sketch of his adventures since
he left the prison shed in Gheria.
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