In the center was a round
table, and Mr. Bourchier, the governor, was placing his guests. He did
not look very pleasant, and when he saw Mr. Johnson he said:
"You come at a somewhat unseasonable hour, sir. Can not your business
wait till the morning?"
"I made bold to come, your Excellency, because 'tis a piece of news the
like of which no one in Bombay has ever heard before. This young
gentleman, Mr. Desmond Burke, son of Captain Burke, whom you'll remember,
sir, has escaped from Gheria."
The governor and his guests were by this time seated, and instantly all
eyes were focused on Desmond, and exclamations of astonishment broke from
their lips.
"Indeed! Bring chairs, Hossain."
One of the native attendants left the room noiselessly, and returning
with chairs placed them at the table.
"Sit down, gentlemen. This is amazing news, as you say, Mr. Johnson.
Perhaps Mr. Burke will relate his adventure as we eat."
Desmond took the chair set for him. The guests were five. Two of them
wore the laced coats of admirals; the taller, a man of handsome presence,
with a round chubby face, large eyes, small full lips, his head crowned
by a neat curled wig, was Charles Watson, in command of the British
fleet; the other was his second, Rear Admiral Pocock. A third was Richard
King, captain of an Indiaman, in a blue coat with velvet lappets and gold
embroidery, buff waistcoat and breeches. Next him sat a jolly red-faced
gentleman in plain attire, and between him and the governor was Clive
himself, whose striking face--the lawyer's brow, the warrior's nose and
chin, the dreamer's mouth--would have marked him out in any company.
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