Far to Seek. Diver Maud

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      "As you please. Those cads won't bother you again."

      "If they do—I will kill them."

      He made that surprising announcement in a fierce whisper. It was the voice of another race.

      And the English boy's answer was equally true to type. "Right you are. Give me fair warning and I'll lend a hand."

      Chandranath stared blankly. "But—they are of your country," he said; and turning, walked off in the opposite direction.

      "A queer fish," Roy's new friend remarked. "Quite out of water here. Awfully stupid sending him to an English school."

      "Why?" asked Roy. He was sitting up and dusting himself generally.

      "Oh, because——" the boy frowned pensively at the horizon. "That takes some explaining, if you don't know India."

      "D'you know India?" Roy could not keep the eagerness out of his tone.

      "Rather. I was born there. North-West Frontier. My name's Desmond. We all belong there. I was out till seven and a half, and I'll go back like a bird directly I'm through with Marlborough."

      He spoke very quietly; but under the quietness Roy guessed there was purpose—there was fire. This boy knew exactly what he meant to do in his grown-up life—that large, vague word crowded with exciting possibilities. He stood there, straight as an arrow, looking out to sea; and straight as an arrow he would make for his target when school and college let go their hold. Something of this Roy dimly apprehended: and his interest was tinged with envy. If they all 'belonged,' were they Indians, he wondered; and decided not, because of Desmond's coppery brown hair. He wanted to understand—to hear more. He almost forgot he was at school.

      "We belong too——" he ventured shyly; and Desmond turned with a kindling eye.

      "Good egg! What Province?"

      "Rajputana."

      "Oh—miles away. Which service?"

      Roy looked puzzled. "I—don't know You see—it's my mother—that belongs. My grandfather's a Minister in a big Native State out there."

      "Oh—I say!"

      There was a shadow of change in his tone. His direct look was a little embarrassing. He seemed to be considering Roy in a new light.

      "I—I wouldn't have thought it," he said; and added a shade too quickly: "We don't belong—that way. We're all Anglo-Indians—Frontier Force." (Clearly a fine thing to be, thought Roy, mystified, but impressed.) "Is your father in the Political?"

      More conundrums! But, warmed by Desmond's friendliness, Roy grew bolder.

      "No. He hates politics. He's just—just a gentleman."

      Desmond burst out laughing.

      "Top hole! He couldn't do better than that. But—if your mother—he must have been in India?"

      "Afterwards—they went. I've been too. He found Mother in France. He painted her. He's a rather famous painter."

      "What name?"

      "Sinclair."

      "Oh, I've heard of him.—And your people are always at home. Lucky beggar!" He was silent a moment watching Roy unlace his boot. Then he asked suddenly, in a voice that tried to sound casual: "I say—have you told any of the other boys—about India—and your Mother?"

      "No—why? Is there any harm?" Roy was on the defensive at once.

      "Well—no. With the right sort, it wouldn't make a scrap of difference. But you can see what some of 'em are like—Bennet Ma. and his crew. Making a dead set at that poor blighter, just because he isn't their colour——"

      Roy started. "Was it only because of that?" he asked with emphasis.

      "'Course it was. Plain as a pike-staff. I suppose they'd bullied him into cheeking them. And they were hacking him on to his knees—forcing him to salaam." Twin sparks sprang alight in his eyes. "That sort of thing—makes me feel like a kettle on the boil. Wish I'd had a boiling kettle to empty over Bennet."

      "So do I—the mean Scab! And he's pinched your bicycle."

      "No fear! You bet we'll find it round the corner. He wouldn't have the spunk to go right off with it. But look here—what I mean is"—hesitant, yet resolute, he harked back to the main point—"if any of that lot came to know—about India and—your mother, well—they're proper skunks, some of them. They might say things that would make you feel like a kettle on the boil."

      "If they did—I would kill them."

      Roy stated the fact with quiet deliberation, and without noticing that he had repeated the very words of the vanished victim.

      This time Desmond did not treat it as a joke.

      "'Course you would," he agreed gravely. "And that sort of shindy's no good for the school. So I thought—better give you the tip——"

      "I—see," Roy said in a low voice, without looking up. He did not see; but he began dimly to guess at a so far unknown and unsuspected state of mind.

      Desmond sat silent while he shook the sand out of his boots. Then he remarked in an easier tone: "Quite sure there's no damage?"

      Roy, now on his feet, found his left leg uncomfortably stiff—and said so.

      "Bad luck! We must walk it off. I'll knead it first, if you like. I've seen them do it on the Border."

      His unskilled manipulation hurt a good deal; but Roy, overcome with gratitude, gave no sign.

      When it was over they set out for their homeward tramp, and found the bicycle, as Desmond had prophesied. He refused to ride on; and Roy limped beside him, feeling absurdly elated. The godlike one had come to earth indeed! Only the remark about his mother still rankled; but he felt shy of returning to the subject. The change in Desmond's manner had puzzled him. Roy glanced admiringly at his profile—the straight nose, the long mouth that smiled so readily, the resolute chin, a little in the air. A clear case of love at sight, schoolboy love; a passing phase of human efflorescence; yet, in passing, it will sometimes leave a mark for life. Roy, instinctively a hero-worshipper, registered a new ambition—to become Desmond's friend.

      Presently, as if aware of his thought, Desmond spoke.

      "I say, Sinclair, how old are you? You seem less of a kid than most of the new lot."

      "I'm ten and a half," said Roy, wishing it was eleven.

      "Bit late for starting. I'm twelve. Going on to Marlborough next year."

      Roy felt crushed. In a year he would be gone! Still—there were three more terms: and he would go on to Marlborough too. He would insist.

      "Does Scab Ma. bother you much?" Desmond asked with a friendly twinkle.

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