The Moonstone | Page 9

up my beehive chair to go out into the
back court, when I was stopped by hearing a sound like the soft beating
of a drum, on the terrace in front of my lady's residence.
Going round to the terrace, I found three mahogany-coloured Indians,
in white linen frocks and trousers, looking up at the house.
The Indians, as I saw on looking closer, had small hand-drums slung in
front of them. Behind them stood a little delicate-looking light-haired
English boy carrying a bag. I judged the fellows to be strolling
conjurors, and the boy with the bag to be carrying the tools of their
trade. One of the three, who spoke English and who exhibited, I must
own, the most elegant manners, presently informed me that my
judgment was right. He requested permission to show his tricks in the
presence of the lady of the house.
Now I am not a sour old man. I am generally all for amusement, and
the last person in the world to distrust another person because he
happens to be a few shades darker than myself. But the best of us have

our weaknesses--and my weakness, when I know a family plate-basket
to be out on a pantry-table, is to be instantly reminded of that basket by
the sight of a strolling stranger whose manners are superior to my own.
I accordingly informed the Indian that the lady of the house was out;
and I warned him and his party off the premises. He made me a
beautiful bow in return; and he and his party went off the premises. On
my side, I returned to my beehive chair, and set myself down on the
sunny side of the court, and fell (if the truth must be owned), not
exactly into a sleep, but into the next best thing to it.
I was roused up by my daughter Penelope running out at me as if the
house was on fire. What do you think she wanted? She wanted to have
the three Indian jugglers instantly taken up; for this reason, namely,
that they knew who was coming from London to visit us, and that they
meant some mischief to Mr. Franklin Blake.
Mr. Franklin's name roused me. I opened my eyes, and made my girl
explain herself.
It appeared that Penelope had just come from our lodge, where she had
been having a gossip with the lodge-keeper's daughter. The two girls
had seen the Indians pass out, after I had warned them off, followed by
their little boy. Taking it into their heads that the boy was ill-used by
the foreigners--for no reason that I could discover, except that he was
pretty and delicate-looking--the two girls had stolen along the inner
side of the hedge between us and the road, and had watched the
proceedings of the foreigners on the outer side. Those proceedings
resulted in the performance of the following extraordinary tricks.
They first looked up the road, and down the road, and made sure that
they were alone. Then they all three faced about, and stared hard in the
direction of our house. Then they jabbered and disputed in their own
language, and looked at each other like men in doubt. Then they all
turned to their little English boy, as if they expected HIM to help them.
And then the chief Indian, who spoke English, said to the boy, "Hold
out your hand."
On hearing those dreadful words, my daughter Penelope said she didn't

know what prevented her heart from flying straight out of her. I thought
privately that it might have been her stays. All I said, however, was,
"You make my flesh creep." (NOTA BENE: Women like these little
compliments.)
Well, when the Indian said, "Hold out your hand," the boy shrunk back,
and shook his head, and said he didn't like it. The Indian, thereupon,
asked him (not at all unkindly), whether he would like to be sent back
to London, and left where they had found him, sleeping in an empty
basket in a market--a hungry, ragged, and forsaken little boy. This, it
seems, ended the difficulty. The little chap unwillingly held out his
hand. Upon that, the Indian took a bottle from his bosom, and poured
out of it some black stuff, like ink, into the palm of the boy's hand. The
Indian--first touching the boy's head, and making signs over it in the
air--then said, "Look." The boy became quite stiff, and stood like a
statue, looking into the ink in the hollow of his hand.
(So far, it seemed to me to be juggling, accompanied by a foolish waste
of ink. I was beginning to feel sleepy again, when Penelope's next
words stirred me up.)
The Indians looked up the road and down the road