s jailer had been tampered with.

Merriman's wrath was very bitter. He had been waiting for years, as he
told Desmond, for the punishment of Peloti. It was gall and wormwood to
him that the villain should have cheated the gallows.

Diggle's escape, however, gave Merriman an opportunity to secure
Desmond's services. The culprit being gone, the evidence was no longer
required. Finding that Desmond was still ready to accept the position of
mate on the Hormuzzeer, Merriman consulted Mr. Bourchier, who admitted
that he saw no reason for detaining the lad. Accordingly, the first week
in March, when the vessel stood out of Bombay harbor, Desmond sailed with
her.

The weather was calm, but the winds not wholly favorable, and the
Hormuzzeer made a somewhat slow passage. Mr. Merriman was impatient to
reach Calcutta, and Desmond was surprised at his increasing uneasiness.
He had believed that the French and Dutch were the only people in Bengal
who gave the Company trouble, and as England was at peace with both
France and the Netherlands, there was nothing, he thought, to fear from
them.

"You are mistaken," said Mr. Merriman, in the course of a conversation
one day. "The natives are a terrible thorn in our side. At best we are in
Bengal on sufferance; we are a very small community--only a hundred or
two Europeans in Calcutta: and since the Marathas overran the country
some years ago we have felt as though sitting on the brink of a volcano.
Alivirdi wants to keep us down; he has forbidden us to fight the French
even if war does break out between us at home; and though the Mogul has
granted us charters--they call them firmans here--Alivirdi doesn't care a
rap for such things, and must have us under his heel. Only his trading
profits and his fear of the Mogul keep him civil."

"But you said he was dying."

"So he is, and that makes matters worse, for his grandson, Sirajuddaula,
who'll probably succeed him, is no better than a tiger. He lives at
Murshidabad, about one hundred miles up the river. He's a vain, peacocky,
empty-headed youth, and as soon as the breath is out of his granddad's
body he'll want to try his wings and take a peck or two at us. He may do
it slyly, or go so far as to attack us openly."

"But if he did that, sure Calcutta is defended; and, as Mr. Clive said to
me in Gheria, British soldiers behind walls might hold out forever."

"Clive doesn't know Calcutta then! That's the mischief! At the Maratha
in