Chandra, local agent of the Cable Company and his own more or less trusted representative, with word that he was in town and wished to see him at once.
The Babu came not long afterwards, coquettish as to attire, with his patent leather pumps and open-work silk socks, his gaudy umbrella and the freshly varnished, crimson caste mark on his low forehead, his sagging lips bubbling florid, frothy greetings, protestations of undying loyalty, mendacious statements that he, his wife, his mother, and his cow were dying of starvation, and complaints against the Babu Bansi and Mr. Preserved Higgins, whose ancestors, it appeared, had been born noseless and devoid of shame for untold generations … a stream of words cut short by Mr. Ezra Warburton's “All right. Let's take all that for granted.”
“But—Higgins saheb is making mischief in the West. He is …”
“That's why I am here. I want an audience as soon as possible with that—what's his name—the fellow who seems to be ace high here …”
“Al Nakia?”
“Yes. I want to see him, right away. Can you fix it up?”
“Yes, Heaven-Born.”
“When?”
“At once. At least—this afternoon. About two hours from now he receives in open durbar, saheb.”
“Good. You'd better come along and play interpreter, Bansi.”
At which the Babu smiled.
