He left early, thinking over what Tods had said.
Now, it was obviously impossible for the Legal Member
to play with a bunnia’s monkey, by way
of getting understanding; but he did better. He
made inquiries, always bearing in mind the fact that
the real native—not the hybrid, University-trained
mule—is as timid as a colt, and little
by little, he coaxed some of the men whom the measure
concerned most intimately to give in their views, which
squared very closely with Tods’ evidence.
So the Bill was amended in that clause; and the Legal
Member was filled with an uneasy suspicion that Native
Members represent very little except the Orders they
carry on their bosoms. But he put the thought
from him as illiberal. He was a most liberal man.
After a time the news spread through the bazars that
Tods had got the Bill recast in the tenure-clause,
and, if Tods’ Mamma had not interfered, Tods
would have made himself sick on the baskets of fruit
and pistachio nuts and Cabuli grapes and almonds that
crowded the verandah. Till he went Home, Tods
ranked some few degrees before the Viceroy in popular
estimation. But for the little life of him Tods
could not understand why.
In the Legal Member’s private-paper-box still
lies the rough draft of the Sub-Montane Tracts Ryotwary
Revised Enactment; and opposite the twenty-second
clause, pencilled in blue chalk, and signed by the
Legal Member are the words ‘Tods’ Amendment.’
Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own
house, at home, little children crowned with dust,
leaping and falling and crying.—
Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.
The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and
dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the
pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was
cleaning for me.
‘Does the Heaven-born want this ball?’
said Imam Din deferentially.
The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but
of what use was a polo-ball to a khitmatgar?
’By Your Honour’s favour, I have a little
son. He has seen this ball, and desires it to
play with, I do not want it for myself.’
No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam
Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried
out the battered thing into the verandah; and there
followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of
small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball
rolling along the ground. Evidently the little
son had been waiting outside the door to secure his
treasure. But how had he managed to see that
polo-ball?
Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier
than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room—a
tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate shirt
which came, perhaps, halfway down the tubby stomach.
It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning
to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly
this was the ‘little son.’
