“Then let him go to the devil, and take his hurry with him.”
“By all means. I wish you good evening, Mr. Batters.”
I swung round on my heels. The creature screamed after me.
“Stop, you fool, stop! I’m the Joss—the Great Joss; the greatest god this country’s ever known. In my presence all men fall upon their knees and worship me.”
“Let ’em. Tastes differ. I like my gods to be built on other lines.”
I expected to be attacked by a shower of execration. But the creature changed his mood.
“And I’m sick of being a god—sick of it—dead sick! Curse your josses, is what I say—damn ’em!” There followed a flood of adjectives. “I want to get out of the place, to turn my back upon the whole infernal land, to never set eyes on it again. I’m an Englishman, that’s what I am—an Englishman, British born and British bred. I want to get back to my native land. Captain Lander, or whatever your cursed name is, will you take me back to England?”
“When?”
“Now—at once—to-night!”
“I do not carry passengers. I doubt if I have proper accommodation. What will you give me for taking you?”
“I’ll show you what I’ll give you.”
The creature scrambled off his throne by means of his arms and hands, like some huge baboon. As I had suspected, he appeared to have no legs. Reaching the ground he moved at what, under the circumstances, was an extraordinary pace. Wheels had been attached to the stumps of his legs. Using his hands as a monkey does its forearms, he advanced upon these wheels as if they had been castors. As we followed him Luke whispered in my ear:—
