CHAPTER VI
A LONG WALK
The footsteps sounded overhead with a singular regularity. From thefireplace to the door, and back again from the door to the fireplace. Ateach turn there was a short pause, and each pause was of the sameduration. The footsteps were very light; it was almost as though ananimal, a caged animal, padded from the bars at one end to the bars atthe other. There was something stealthy in the footsteps too.
In the room below a man of forty-five sat writing at a desk--a very tall,broad-shouldered man, in clerical dress. Twenty-five years before he hadrowed as number seven in the Oxford Eight, with an eye all the while upona mastership at his old school. He had taken a first in Greats; he hadobtained his mastership; for the last two years he had had a House. As hehad been at the beginning, so he was now, a man without theories but withan instinctive comprehension of boys. In consequence there were novacancies in his house, and the Headmaster had grown accustomed torecommend the Rev. Mr. Arthur Pollard when boys who needed any specialcare came to the school.
He was now so engrossed with the preparations for the term which was tobegin to-morrow that for some while the footsteps overhead did notattract his attention. When he did hear them he just lifted his head,listened for a moment or two, lit his pipe and went on with his work.
But the sounds continued. Backwards and forwards from the fireplace tothe door, the footsteps came and went--without haste and withoutcessation; stealthily regular; inhumanly light. Their very monotonyhelped them to pass as unnoticed as the ticking of a clock. Mr. Pollardcontinued the preparation of his class-work for a full hour, and onlywhen the dusk was falling, and it was becoming difficult for him to seewhat he was writing, did he lean back in his chair and stretch his armsabove his head with a sigh of relief.
Then once more he became aware of the footsteps overhead. He rose andrang the bell.
"Who is that walking up and down the drawingroom, Evans?" he asked ofthe butler.
The butler threw back his head and listened.
"I don't know, sir," he replied.
"Those footsteps have been sounding like that for more than an hour."
"For more than an hour?" Evans repeated. "Then I am afraid, sir, it's thenew young gentleman from India."
Arthur Pollard started.
"Has he been waiting up there alone all this time?" he exclaimed. "Why inthe world wasn't I told?"
"You were told, sir," said Evans firmly but respectfully. "I came intothe study here and told you, and you answered 'All right, Evans.' But Ihad my doubts, sir, whether you really heard or not."
Mr. Pollard hardly waited for the end of the explanation. He hurried outof the room and sprang up the stairs. He had arranged purposely for theyoung Prince to come to the house a day before term began. He was likelyto be shy, ill-at-ease and homesick, among so many strange faces andunfamiliar ways. Moreover, Mr. Pollard wished to become better acquaintedwith the boy than would be easily possible once the term was in fullswing. For he was something more of an experiment than the ordinaryIndian princeling from a State well under the thumb of the Viceroy andthe Indian Council. This boy came of the fighting stock in the north. Toleave him tramping about a strange drawing-room alone for over an hourwas not the best possible introduction to English ways and English life.Mr. Pollard opened the door and saw a slim, tall boy, with his handsbehind his back and his eyes fixed on the floor, walking up and down inthe gloom.
"Shere Ali," he said, and he held out his hand. The boy took it shyly.
"You have been waiting here for some time," Mr. Pollard continued, "I amsorry. I did not know that you had come. You should have rung the bell."
"I was not lonely," Shere Ali replied. "I was taking a walk."
"Yes, so I gathered," said the master with a smile. "Rather a long walk."
"Yes, sir," the boy answered seriously. "I was walking from Kohara up thevalley, and remembering the landmarks as I went. I had walked a long way.I had come to the fort where my father was besieged."
"Yes, that reminds me," said Pollard, "you won't feel so lonely to-morrowas you do to-day. There is a new boy joining whose father was a greatfriend of your father's. Richard Linforth is his name. Very likely yourfather has mentioned that name to you."
Mr. Pollard switched on the light as he spoke and saw Shere All's faceflash with eagerness.
"Oh yes!" he answered, "I know. He was killed upon the road by myuncle's people."
"I have put you into the next room to his. If you will come with me Iwill show you."
Mr. Pollard led the way along a passage into the boys' quarters.
"This is your room. There's your bed. Here's your 'burry,'" pointing to abureau with a bookcase on the top. He threw open the next door. "This isLinforth's room. By the way, you speak English very well."
"Yes," said Shere Ali. "I was taught it in Lahore first of all. My fatheris very fond of the English."
"Well, come along," said Mr. Pollard. "I expect my wife has come back andshe shall give us some tea. You will dine with us to-night, and we willtry to make you as fond of the English as your father is."
The next day the rest of the boys arrived, and Mr. Pollard took theoccasion to speak a word or two to young Linforth.
"You are both new boys," he said, "but you will fit into the scheme ofthings quickly enough. He won't. He's in a strange land, among strangepeople. So just do what you can to help him."
Dick Linforth was curious enough to see the son of the Khan ofChiltistan. But not for anything would he have talked to him of hisfather who had died upon the road, or of the road itself. These thingswere sacred. He greeted his companion in quite another way.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Shere Ali," replied the young Prince.
"That won't do," said Linforth, and he contemplated the boy solemnly. "Ishall call you Sherry-Face," he said.
And "Sherry-Face" the heir to Chiltistan remained; and in due time thename followed him to College.