Then at the
sound of a pudgy blow upon a table or high abusive accents in the rapid,
elaborate cadences of the domiciled East Indian tongue, Hari Babu would
glance at Gobind Babu with a careful smile, for the manager-sahib who
dispensed so much _galli_[6] was now receiving the same, and
defenceless.
[Footnote 6: Abuse.]
The manager sat at his desk when Hilda went in. He did not rise--he was
one of those highly sagacious little Scotchmen that Dundee exports in
such large numbers to fill small posts in the East, and she had come on
business. He gave her a nod, however, and an affectionate smile, and
indicated with his blue pencil a chair on the other side of the table.
He had once made three hundred rupees in tea shares, and that gave him
the air of a capitalist and speculator gamely shrewd. Tapping the table
with his blue pencil, he asked Miss Howe how the world was using _her_.
"Let me see," said Hilda, a trifle absent-mindedly, "were you here last
cold weather--I rather imagine you were, weren't you?"
"I was; I had the pleasure of--"
"To be sure. You got the place in December, when that poor fellow Baker
died. Baker was a country-bred, I know, but he always kept his
contracts, while you got your polish in Glesca, and your name is
Macphairson--isn't it?"
"I was never in Glasscow in my life, and my name is Macandrew," said the
manager, putting with some aggressiveness a paper-weight on a pile of
bills.
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