Chapter I
The good ship steered toward the East,
To the East, o'er the salt sea foam;
And years rolled by, and time grew old,
But she nevermore came home.
When a man has taken a first-class degree, when he has won his blue, and has passed high into the Indian Civil Service without the wet-nursing of a crammer, it might be hazarded that he is worth something. One might go further and picture out his future career—how he would be a prop of Israel; how, step by step, he would rise until the Honourable Council enshrouded him; and how, after a life of useful work, he would, like Oliver, desire more, and drop into being the bore of "the House," or into the warmest corner of the "Oriental," and dream over the fire of the time when he was his Honour the Lieutenant Governor; but the lion is very old now—let him doze.
Peregrine Jackson had taken the first steps to qualify for this part in the tragedy of life, for this forging of the links of that mysterious chain of which we know not the beginning and may never know the end until, as to Longinus, the gates of immortality are opened unto us. But the tall, straight, broad-shouldered young Englishman was thinking of none of these things at present. He had elected to serve in Burma, and he was now posted as assistant commissioner, practically Governor of Pazobin, which is in lower Burma, and lies near the sea on a slimy creek of the Irawadi. He leaned over the gunwale of the river steamer that was bearing him to his destination, and the skipper, the sleeves of his gray-flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, stood beside him and pointed out Pazobin, which lay about two miles off, clinging like a limpet to the river bank. Now, a Burman river steamer can walk, and at twelve knots an hour two miles would not take long to cover—in fact, the Woon had already whistled shrilly to announce her coming—a whistle that found a hundred echoes in the forest which fringed the banks, until it died away in fitful cadences in some unknown swamp. And let it be remembered that this is the country of the creeks. Here the Irawadi, whose source no man knoweth, comes down from its cradle of snow, past the tremendous defiles of Bhamo, through the whole length of that strange land from which the veil has only just been lifted, past cities and temples, until at last the mystery of waters spread out with a hundred thirsty throats toward the sea, and puddles its blue field with a muddy yellow far out, even to where the breakers hiss around Cape Negrais. Between the wide necks that stretch out to the sea the water has made for itself countless cuttings, through which it ebbs and flows sluggishly beneath the shadows of a primeval forest. The whistle of the steamer was answered by the dull boom of a signal gun, and the broad bosom of the creek was almost immediately dotted over with a vast number of small craft making their way toward the incoming mail boat. "There's the pagoda," and the Mudlark, as captains of Burman river steamers are irreverently called, pointed to the gilded cupola which rose high above the feathers of the bamboos that surrounded it. "There's the jetty," he added, "and there's the courthouse. You'll know more about that presently. Wonder how you'll like sitting there ten hours a day? And, by George, there's the nga-pe!" "The what?" But as Jackson spoke, a puff of wind brought a decomposed odour to the steamer. It was overpowering, an all-pervading essence, and for a moment Peregrine forgot everything in a vain effort to beat off the evil with his pocket-handkerchief. "It's all right when you're used to it," mocked the captain, "and you mustn't turn up your nose at it, for that delicate condiment is the main source of revenue of your district. Wait till I take you up some day with a shipload on board! And now, your humble, I must be off."
