CHAPTER I

A STRANGER IN THE LAND

"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?"

An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together they—or rather their horses—toiled up a sharp ascent.

"Oh yes,I heard him," grunted the other with a shrug.

"And what did you think, Ted?"

"That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising rejoinder."Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out!"

"Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the estates were chock full of gold."

"Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it," declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade.

"Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops—the berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner."I've heard that lame Maistrey—whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened up—say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains—run right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered in jungle."

"Bosh!" ejaculated Ted,"I've heard these fool stories, but there's nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of ammonia.

The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up the steep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated on the western slopes of a hill range, in Southern India. Edward Dawson, the elder of the pair, was a big, loosely put-together man, of five and thirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardless face), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clothes were decent—which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt, wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a battered topee, completed his kit.

Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely invested part of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had thereby provided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes—a good, honest fellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spoke Tamil and Canarese, with effective fluency.

Nicholas Byng, his companion, cousin, and partner, was a slight, young man, with neat features, quick, bright eyes, and a remarkably clear idea of the importance of appearances—especially of his own appearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode a long-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouraging name of"Mad Molly."

Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for the Army, but was"spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared to have become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end to further efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him to the Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career, he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year's apprenticeship, became partner and sub-manager. He liked the life.

Teddy, for all his unconventional,"jungly" ways, was a good sort; a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays—oh, it was notall"coffee"—and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras, and fashionable—alas! rather remote—hill stations; he got a bit of shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet s