In Clives Command | Page 5

negro boy, his eyes
starting, his breast heaving with terror, sprang to the side of his
deliverer, who soothingly patted his woolly head, and turned at bay
upon the crowd, now again pressing near.
"Back, you boobies!" he shouted. "'Tis my boy! If a man of you follows
me, I'll break his head for him."
He turned and, clasping the black boy's hand close in his, strode away
towards the waiting cart. The crowd stood in hesitation, daunted by the
tall stranger's fierce mien. But one came out from among them, a slim
boy of some fifteen years, who had followed at the heels of the stranger
and had indeed assisted his progress. The rest, disappointed of their
Indian hunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy
hastened on. Hearing his quick footsteps, the man swung around with a
snarl.
"I hope the boy isn't hurt," said the lad quietly. "Can I do anything for
you?"
The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien and
voice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of his
manner vanished, and he said:
"Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for your
goodwill. As you perceive, my withers are not wrung."
He waved his right hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was covered
from wrist to knuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove of

black velvet.
"The boy has taken no harm. Hic niger est, as Horace somewhere hath
it; and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder. Scipio is his
praenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his already
by nature--Africanus, to wit. You take me, kind sir? But I detain you;
your ears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friend
yonder; without more ado then, good night!"
And turning on his heel, waving his gloved hand in salutation, the
stranger went his way. The lad watched him wonderingly. For all his
shabbiness he appeared a gentleman. His speech was clean cut, his
accent pure; yet in his tone, as in his dress, there was something
unusual, a touch of the theatrical, strange to that old sleepy town.
He hoisted the negro into the cart, then mounted to his place beside the
driver, and the vehicle rumbled away.
Retracing his steps, the boy once more joined the crowd, and wormed
his way through its now silent ranks until he came within sight of the
assembly room. But if he had wished to hear Clive's speech of thanks,
he was too late. As he arrived, applause greeted the hero's final words,
and he resumed his seat. To the speeches that followed, no heed was
paid by the populace; words from the vicar and the local attorney had
no novelty for them. But they waited, gossiping among themselves,
until the festivity was over and the party broke up.
More shouts arose as the great man appeared at the inn door. Horses
were there in waiting; a hundred hands were ready to hold the stirrup
for Clive; but he mounted unassisted and rode off in company with Sir
Philip Chetwode, a neighboring squire whose guest he was. When the
principal figure had gone, the throng rapidly melted away, and soon the
street had resumed its normal quiet.
The boy was among the last to quit the scene. Walking slowly down the
road, he overtook a bent old man in the smock of a farm laborer,
trudging along alone.

"Hey, Measter Desmond," said the old man, "I feels for tha, that I do. I
seed yer brother theer, eatin' an' drinkin' along wi' the noble general, an'
thinks I, 'tis hard on them as ha' to look on, wi' mouths a-waterin' fur
the vittles an' drink. But theer, I'd be afeard to set lips to some o' them
kickshawses as goes down into the nattlens o' high folk, an', all said an'
done, a man canna be more'n full, even so it bin wi' nowt but turmuts
an' Cheshire cheese.
"Well, sir, 'tis fine to be an elder son, that's true, an' dunna ye take on
about it. You bin on'y a lad, after all, pardon my bold way o' speakin',
an' mebbe when you come to man's estate, why, theer'll be a knife an'
fork fur you too, though I doubt we'll never see General Clive in these
parts no moore. Here be my turnin'; good night to ya, sir."
"Good night, Dickon."
And Desmond Burke passed on alone, out of the silent town, into the
now darkening road that led to his home towards Cheswardine.
Chapter 2
: In which our hero overhears a conversation; and, meeting with the
unexpected, is none the less surprised and offended.
Desmond's pace became slower