Baboo Jabberjee, B.A. by F. Anstey (read e book .txt) 📕

and the correctness of said astrologer's prediction that it must infallibly be the Lamb who would be whiphanded in the unequal conflict.

In consequence, though I am beating the floor with my head as I write, and moistening the carpet with the copiousness of my lachrymations, I must bid you the final and irrevocable adieu and au revoir, since I am unwilling to act as a selfish. Think of me as "a prince out of thy star," to quote the reference of Shakspeare's character, Polonius, to Hamlet, under precisely similar circumstances. You will please forget me instanter, and accept this as my last solemn so-long, which I utter on the threshold of preparation for the stern and dreaded ordeal of Bar Exam. In frantic haste,

Your ever faithful and broken-hearted Baboo,

Hurry.

P.S.—No answer required.

But after an interval of a very few posts, in spite of my strict injunctions to contrary, I got the answer that she was deeply moved by my self-sacrifice, and had never loved me more. Having been brought up in a Christian disbelief of all astronomy, she was not in fear of my "doweybogey" or any other native bogies, and nothing should part us, if she could help it. She added, that I had been seen about Westbourne Grove recently.

On receipt of this touching and beautiful communication I was again in the stampede of panic, and realised that I must have immediate resort to some stronger description of "Spoof."

It is calamitous that I cannot find a card up my sleeve with the single exception of my young friend Howard's dodge, which I fear will prove too filamentous.

However, a faint heart never got rid of a fair lady!

[Pg 146] XIX

Mr Jabberjee tries a fresh tack. His visit to the India Office and sympathetic reception.

In my last I had the honour to report the total non-success of my endeavour to nill my betrothal on plea of astrological objections, and how I was consequentially up the tree of embarrassment.

I have since resolved that honesty is my best politics, and have confessed to Miss Mankletow in a well-expressed curt letter that I am only the possessor of a courtesy title, and, so far from rolling on the rosy bed of unlimited rhino, am out of elbows, and dependent upon parental remittances for pin-money.

For corroboration of said statements I begged to refer her politely to my benevolent friend and patron, Hon'ble Sir Cummerbund, Nevern Square, South Kensington; to whom I simultaneously wrote a private and confidential note, instructing him that if any young female person was to inquire particulars of my birth, origin, &c., he was to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, especially making it clear that I was neither a tip-top Rajah, nor a Leviathan of filthy lucre.

The rest (up to present date) is silence; but I have confident hopes that the manly, straightforward stratagem suggested by my friend, young Howard, will accomplish the job, and procure me the happy release.

I am now to pass to a different subject—to wit, a visit I paid some time since to the India Office. The why of the wherefore was that, in conversation with the Allbutt-Innetts, I had boasted freely of the credit I was in with certain high grade India Official nobs, who could refuse me nothing.

Which was hitherto the positive fact, since I had never requested any favour at their hands.

But Mrs Allbutt-Innett stated that she had heard that the reception-soirées at said India Office were extremely enjoyable and classy, and inquired whether I possessed sufficient influence to obtain for her tickets of admission to one of these select entertainments.

Naturally I had to reply that I could indubitably do the trick, and would at once proceed to the India Office and interview one of the senior clerks who regarded me as his brother.

So, after procuring a Whitaker Almanack, and hunting up the name of one of the most senior, I cabbed to Whitehall. Inside the entrance I found an attendant sitting at a table absorbed in reading, who rose and inquired my business, and upon my statement that I desired to see Mr Breakwater, Esq., on urgent business, courteously directed me up a marble staircase, at the top of which was a second attendant, also engaged in brown study—for the attendants appear to be laudably addicted to the cultivation of their minds.

He informed me that I should find Mr Breakwater's room down a certain corridor, and proceeding thither, I stopped a clerk who was hurrying along with his hands full of documents, and represented that I had come for an immediate interview with Mr Breakwater on highly important matters.

He demanded incredulously whether Mr Breakwater expected me.

This elevated my monkey, and I retorted, haughtily, that I was the bosom friend of said Mr B., who would be overjoyed to receive me, and, following him into a room, I peremptorily demanded that he should inform his master without fail that Baboo Jabberjee was there.

Whereupon, with the nonchalance of a Jack in an office, he rang a bell and desired an attendant to usher me to the waiting-room.

There, in a large gloomy apartment, surrounded by portraits of English and Native big pots, I did sit patiently sucking the golden nob of my umbrella for a quarter of an hour, until the attendant returned, saying, that Mr Breakwater could see me now, and presently showed me into the aforesaid private room, where, behind a large table covered with wicker baskets containing dockets and memoranda, et hoc genus omne, sat the very gentleman whom I had recently taken for his own underling!

Formerly I should have proffered abject excuses, but I am now sufficiently up in British observances to know that the only necessary is a frank and breezy apology.

So, disguising my bashful confusion, I said, "I am awfully sorry that I took you, my dear old chap, for a common ordinary fellow; but remember the proverb, that 'appearances are deceitful,' and do not reveal a thin skin about a rather natural mistake."

Mr Breakwater courteously entreated me not to mention the affair, but to state my business briefly. Accordingly I related how I was a native Bengalee student, at present moving Heaven and Earth to pass Bar Exam, and my intimate connection with the distinguished Bayswater family of the Allbutt-Innetts, who were consumed with longing for free tickets to an official soirée. I then described the transcendent charms of Miss Wee-Wee, and my own ardent desire to obtain her grateful recognition by procuring the open sesame for self and friends. Furthermore, I pointed out that, as an official in the India Office, he was in loco parentis to myself, and bound to indulge all my reasonable requests, and I assured him that if he exhibited generosity on this occasion, the entire Allbutt-Innett family, self included, would ever pray on the crooked hinges of knees for his temporal and spiritual welfare.

He heard me benignantly, but said he regretted that it was not in his power to oblige me.

"You are not to suppose," I said, "that I am a native Tom-dick or Harry. I am a B.A. of Calcutta University, and candidate for call to Bar. In additum, I am the literary celebrity, being especially retained to jot and tittle for the periodical of Punch."

Mr Breakwater assured me earnestly that he fully appreciated my many distinguished claims, but that he was under an impossibility of granting my petition for an invite to the annual summer soirée, owing to the fact that aforesaid festivity was already the fait accompli.

"How is that?" I exclaimed. "Have I not read in the daily press of a grand durbar to be given shortly in honour of Hon'ble Hung Chang?"

"But that is at the Foreign Office," he objected; "we have no connection with such a concern."