Such a late breakfast brought the time of departure very near, as the captain was anxious to leave as early as possible that afternoon. As it was, he had to account for several hours’ delay, and would be taken to task for any such unnecessarily indulged in. We therefore took leave of our hospitable entertainers, and commenced the return voyage to Moulmein, with no other passenger on board than myself. He soon reminded me of my promise regarding the merchant’s experience on the island, and I gratified his curiosity, narrating the facts much as they have been here set forth. Moulmein was “made” in due time; and I was heartily sorry to bid farewell to the captain, who had to proceed straight to Calcutta, whereas my steamer would follow in the wake of the _Pluto_ ten days later. I was glad of the respite, being moreover in no hurry to change the clear, bright Salween for the muddy, depressing Hooghly, with its defunct Hindoos and carrion fowl. Before leaving Moulmein, I consulted with my friend as to some suitable way of tendering my thanks to the captain for all the kindness and hospitality I had received at his hands; and a plan was devised and carried out on my return to India. This, while insignificant in intrinsic value, served as a slight _souvenir_ of the time when he had done all in his power to render the voyage as comfortable and interesting as possible, and to wean me from brooding over the recent Cimmerian period of the Mutiny. For some time we corresponded. If he still lives, may we meet again on this side of the border! CHAPTER XX. AND LAST. “My pen is at the bottom of a page, Which being finished, here the story ends ’Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, But stories somehow lengthen when begun.” The reader may mentally alter the title of this concluding chapter to “_At_ Last!” and if he has found my reminiscences dull or humdrum, he will soon have his reward by closing the book and consigning it to oblivion—or to Mudie’s cart! Nevertheless, in glancing back over the foregoing pages—a retrospect of a retrospect—I seem to have fulfilled what I undertook at the outset—even though that be little. Digressions there are, I know, “innumerable as the temples in Pagan,” to borrow an old Burmese proverb; and the bare outline of my story, stripped of such embellishments, might easily be reduced to the dimensions of a certain celebrated signboard, which set forth the fame of one John Thompson. That worthy man, a hatter by trade, composed it himself as follows: “_John Thompson, hatter; makes and sells hats for ready money_,” under which was depicted a large hat. This he submitted to half a dozen cronies, who modified it as follows. The first thought the word “hatter” unnecessary, because followed by the words “makes hats.” It was therefore struck out. The next objected to the word “makes,” as no one, he argued, would care who made the hats, as long as they were good. That was also omitted.