“An’ we three,” said Mulvaney, with
a seraphic smile, “have dhrawn the par-ti-cu-lar
attinshin av Bobs Bahadur more than wanst. But
he’s a rale good little man is Bobs. Go
on, Orth’ris, my son.”
“Then we leaves ’im at the Kernul’s
‘ouse, werry sick, an’ we cuts hover to
B Comp’ny barrick an’ we sez we ’ave
saved Benira from a bloody doom, an’ the chances
was agin there bein’ p’raid on Thursday.
About ten minutes later come three envelicks, one
for each of us. S’elp me Bob, if the old
bloke ’adn’t guv us a fiver apiece—sixty-four
rupees in the bazar! On Thursday ’e was
in ‘orspital recoverin’ from ’is
sanguinary encounter with a gang of Pathans, an’
B Comp’ny was drinkin’ ’emselves
into Clink by squads. So there never was no Thursday
p’raid. But the Kernal, when ’e ’eard
of our galliant conduct, ’e sez, ’Hi know
there’s been some devilry somewheres,’
sez ’e, ’but I can’t bring it ‘ome
to you three.’”
“An’ my privit imprisshin is,” said
Mulvaney, getting off the bar and turning his glass
upside down, “that, av they had known they wudn’t
have brought ut home. ‘Tis flyin’
in the face, firstly av Nature, secon’ av the
Rig’lations, an’ third the will av Terence
Mulvaney, to hold p’rades av Thursdays.”
“Good, ma son!” said Learoyd; “but,
young mon, what’s t’ notebook for?”
“’Let be,” said Mulvaney; “this
time next month we’re in the Sherapis.
‘Tis immortial fame the gentleman’s goin’
to give us. But kape it dhark till we’re
out av the range av me little frind Bobs Bahadur.”
And I have obeyed Mulvaney’s order.
Love heeds not caste nor sleep a broken bed.
I went in search of love and lost myself.—Hindu
Proverb.
A man should, whatever happens, keep to his own caste,
race and breed. Let the White go to the White
and the Black to the Black. Then, whatever trouble
falls is in the ordinary course of things—neither
sudden, alien nor unexpected.
This is the story of a man who wilfully stepped beyond
the safe limits of decent everyday society, and paid
for it heavily.
He knew too much in the first instance; and he saw
too much in the second. He took too deep an interest
in native life; but he will never do so again.
Deep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji’s
bustee, lies Amir Nath’s Gully, which
ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window.
At the head of the Gully is a big cow-byre, and the
walls on either side of the Gully are without windows.
Neither Suchet Singh nor Gaur Chand approve of their
womenfolk looking into the world. If Durga Charan
had been of their opinion, he would have been a happier
man to-day, and little Bisesa would have been able
to knead her own bread. Her room looked out through
the grated window into the narrow dark Gully where
the sun never came and where the buffaloes wallowed
in the blue slime. She was a widow, about fifteen
years old, and she prayed the Gods, day and night,
to send her a lover; for she did not approve of living
alone.
