ed more than the
fair half, at 1-6, to Montpelier Square. One hundred and thirty-five
rupees out of three hundred and thirty is not much to live on; but
it was absurd to suppose that Mrs. Hatt could exist forever on the 20
pounds held back by Dicky, from his outfit allowance. Dicky saw this,
and remitted at once; always remembering that Rs. 700 were to be paid,
twelve months later, for a first-class passage out for a lady. When you
add to these trifling details the natural instincts of a boy beginning a
new life in a new country and longing to go about and enjoy himself, and
the necessity for grappling with strange work--which, properly speaking,
should take up a boy's undivided attention--you will see that Dicky
started handicapped. He saw it himself for a breath or two; but he did
not guess the full beauty of his future.

As the hot weather began, the shackles settled on him and ate into his
flesh. First would come letters--big, crossed, seven sheet letters--from
his wife, telling him how she longed to see him, and what a Heaven
upon earth would be their property when they met. Then some boy of the
chummery wherein Dicky lodged would pound on the door of his bare little
room, and tell him to come out and look at a pony--the very thing to
suit him. Dicky could not afford ponies. He had to explain this. Dicky
could not afford living in the chummery, modest as it was. He had to
explain this before he moved to a single room next the office where
he worked all day. He kept house on a green oil-cloth table-cover, one
chair, one charpoy, one photograph, one tooth-glass, very strong and
thick, a seven-rupee eight-anna filter, and messing by contract at
thirty-seven rupees a month. Which last item was extortion. He had no
punkah, for a punkah costs fifteen rupees a month; but he slept on the
roof of the office with all his wife's letters under his pillow. Now and
again he was asked out to dinner where he got both a punkah and an iced
drink. But this was seldom, for people objected to recognizing a boy who
had evidently the instincts of a Scotch tallow-chandler, and who lived
in such a nasty fashion. Dicky could not subscribe to any amusement, so
he found no amusement except the pleasure of turning over his Bank-book
and reading what it said about "loans on approved security." That cost
nothing. He remitted through a Bombay Bank, by the way, and the Station
knew nothing of his private affairs.

Every month he sent Home all he