The man recognised him and asked:  “Deputy Saheb, why are you here?  What is wrong?”

The Magistrate told him of the dacoits and of his escape.  “Dacoits after you!” said the policeman and looked grave.  “Sir, I cannot help you.  What is one policewallah against so many?  If I shelter you we shall both die.  You better push on.”

For a time the Magistrate pleaded to deaf ears.  But at length his promises of promotion and reward moved the man.  “Come” he said “I will do my best,” and, rising, led the way to his own house.  Here in the inner room was a high machan—­a huge bamboo shelf made like a raft and suspended from the roof and reached by a moveable ladder, used for storing all sorts of things.

On this machan were some old blankets.  “Here, conceal yourself in these” said the policeman.  The Deputy Magistrate needed no second bidding.  He climbed up and rolled himself in one of the blankets and heaped the others in front of him.  The policeman carried the ladder away, right out of the house.  Then he shut the door and returned to the office.

After a time there came the noise of the dacoits.  They soon entered the police station and shouted:  “Give up that Deputy Saheb.  We know he is here.”

“Deputy, what Deputy?  I cannot understand.  Where is he?” answered the policeman.

“Don’t be shamming,” returned the dacoits contemptuously, “thou knowest well whom we mean.  Produce him if you value your own life.”

In vain the policeman pleaded ignorance.  His trembling limbs and shaking voice belied his words.  The dacoits bound him, searched the police office, and then proceeded to hunt the house.  “He is not here.  Let us not waste further time,” said one.  “Let’s look well,” said another, “and search every place.”  Some climbed the machan and discovered their victim.  It did not take them long to drag him down, and beat him mercilessly with their long sticks, till he became unconscious.  The policeman too was severely chastised.  Him they left lying there; but rolled the offending Magistrate in an old mat, bound him tightly with a rope and carried him away to the river.

As he was borne on their shoulders through the night air, he gradually came to his senses but kept silent and listened to his captors.  By this time it was dawn, and they were at the river.  The majority were for re-crossing and burning him, dead or alive.  One dissentient voice struck him with surprise.  It was his father-in-law’s!  Clearly he was one of the gang!  But scruples had overtaken him and he pleaded that he might not be a witness of the projected murder of his son-in-law.  “Spare me! spare me!” he cried.

Some jeered:  “Ho!  Ho! you still have a soft corner in your heart for your son-in-law.”  At last they agreed that he might absent himself and he apparently turned back.

The others now put their burden into a boat and crossed the river.  They were laughing at the father-in-law’s weakness, and as they approached the ghat failed to observe a Government budgerow anchored there.  It was the Divisional Commissioner’s.  He was out on tour.  The paharawalla on deck checked them:  “Do not make such a noise.  The Saheb sleeps.”