women, walked up to report themselves, and pretty little Unda stole away to Janki's hut to prepare his evening meal. "Alone I found the way," explained Janki Meah, "and now will the Company give me pension?" The simple pit-folk shouted and leaped and went back to the dam, reassured in their old belief that, whatever happened, so great was the power of the Company whose salt they ate, none of them could be killed. But Gur Sahai only bared his white teeth and kept his hand upon the lever and proved his pumps to the uttermost. "I say," said the Assistant to the Manager, a week later, "do you recollect Germinal?" "Yes. 'Queer thing. I thought of it in the cage when that balk went by. Why?" "Oh, this business seems to be Germinal upside down, Janki was in my veranda all this morning, telling me that Kundoo had eloped with his wife-Unda or Anda, I think her name was." "Hillo! And those were the cattle that you life to clear out of Twenty-Two!" risked your "No I was thinking of the Company's props, not the Company's men." "Sounds better to say so now; but I don't believe fellow. you, old IN FLOOD TIME. Tweed said tae Till:- "Though ye rin wi' speed Yet where ye droon ae man THERE is no getting over the river to-night, Sahib. They say that a bullock-cart has been washed down already, and the ekka that went over a half-hour before you came, has not yet reached the far side. Is the Sahib in haste? I will drive the ford-elephant in to show him. Ohe, mahout there in the shed! Bring out Ram Pershad, and if he will face the current, good. An elephant never lies, Sahib, and Ram Pershad is separated from his friend Kala Nag. He, too, wishes to cross to the far side. Well done! Well done! my King! Go half-way across, mahoutji, and see what the river says. Well done, Ram Pershad! Pearl among elephants, go into the river! Hit him on the head, fool! Was the goad made only to scratch thy own fat back with, bastard? Strike! Strike! What are the bowlders to thee, Ram Pershad, my Rustum, my mountain of strength? Go in! Go in! No, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear him trumpet. He is telling Kala Nag that he cannot come over. See! He has swung round and is shaking his head. He is no fool. He knows what the Barhwi means when it is angry. Aha! Indeed, thou art no fool, my child! salaam, Ram Pershad, Bahadur! Take him under the trees, mahout, and see that he gets his spices. Well, done, thou chiefest among tuskers. salaam to the Sirkar and go to sleep. What is to be done? The Sahib must wait till the river It will shrink to-morrow morning, if God goes down. pleases, or the day after at the latest. get so angry? I am his servant. Now why does the Sahib Before God, I did not My hut and all that is create this stream! What can I do? therein is at the service of the Sahib, and it is beginning to rain. Come away, my Lord. How will the river go down In the old days the English for your throwing abuse at it? people were not thus. The fire-carriage has made them soft. In the old days, when they drave behind horses by day or by night, they said naught if a river barred the way, or a carriage sat down in the mud. It was the will of God-not like a firecarriage which goes and goes and goes, and would go though all the devils in the land hung on to its tail. The fire-carriage hath spoiled the English people. After all, what is a day lost, or, for that matter, what are two days? Is the Sahib going to his own wedding, that he is so mad with haste? Ho! Ho! Ho! I am an old man and see few Sahibs. Forgive me if I have forgotten the respect that is due to them. The Sahib is not angry? His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The mind of an old man is like the numah-tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and the dead leaves of all the years of the past flourish together. Old and new and that which is gone out of remembrance, all three are there! Sit on the bedstead, Sahib, and drink milk. Or . . . would the Sabib in truth care to drink my tobacco? It is good. It is the tobacco of Nuklao. My son, who is in service there, sent it to me. Drink, then, Sahib, if you know how to handle the tube. The Sahib takes it like a Musalman. Wah! Wah! Where did he learn that? His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The Sahib says that there is no wedding in the matter at all? Now is it likely that the Sahib would speak true talk to me who am only a black man? Small wonder, then, that he is in haste. Thirty years have I beaten the gong at this ford, but never have I seen a Sahib in such haste. Thirty years, Sahib! That is a very long time. Thirty years ago this ford was on the track of the bunjaras, and I have seen two thousand pack-bullocks cross in one night. Now the rail has come, and the fire-carriage says buz-buz-buz, and a hundred lakhs of maunds slide across that big bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford is lonely now that there are no bunjaras to camp under the trees. Nay, do not trouble to look at the sky without. It will rain till the dawn. Listen! The bowlders are talking to-night in the bed of the river. Hear them! They would be husking your bones, Sahib, had you tried to cross. See, I will shut the door and no rain can enter. Wahi! Ahi! Ugh! Thirty years on the banks of the ford! An old man am I and . . . where is the oil for the lamp? Your pardon, but, because of my years, I sleep no sounder than a dog; and you moved to the door. Look then, Sahib Look and listen. A full half kos from bank to bank is the stream now-you can see it under the stars—and there are ten feet of water therein. It will not shrink because of the anger in your eyes, and it will not be quiet on account of your Which is louder, Sahib-your voice or the voice of the river? Call to it-perhaps it will be ashamed. Lie down and sleep afresh, Sahib. I know the anger of the Barhwi when there has fallen rain in the foot-hills. I swam the flood, once, on a night tenfold worse than this, and by the Favor of God I was released from Death when I had come to the very gates thereof. May I tell the tale? Very good talk. I will fill the pipe anew. Thirty years ago it was, when I was a young man and had but newly come to the ford. I was strong then, and the bunjaras had no doubt when I said "this ford is clear." I have toiled all night up to my shoulder-blades in running water amid a hundred bullocks mad with fear, and have brought them across losing not a hoof. When all was done I fetched the shivering men, and they gave me for reward the pick of their cattle-the bell-bullock of the drove. So great was the honor in which I was held! But, to-day when the rain falls and the river rises, I creep into my hut and whimper like a dog. The strength is gone from me. I am an old man and the fire-carriage has made the ford desolate. They were wont to call me the Strong One of the Barhwi. Behold my face, Sahib. It is the face of a monkey. And my arm. It is the arm of an old woman. I swear to you, Sahib, that a woman has loved this face and has rested in the hollow of this arm. Twenty years ago, Sahib. this was true talk . . . twenty years ago. Believe me, Come to the door and look across. Can you see a thin fire very far away down the stream? That is the temple-fire, in the shrine of Hanuman, of the village of Pateera. North, under the big star, is the village itself, but it is hidden by a bend of the river. Is that far to swim, Sahib? Would you take off your clothes and adventure? Yet I swam to Pateeranot once but many times; and there are muggers in the river too. Love knows no caste; else why should I, a Musalman and the son of a Musalman, have sought a Hindu woman—a widow of the Hindus--the sister of the headman of Pateera? But it was even so. They of the headman's household came on a pilgrimage to Muttra when She was but newly a bride. Silver tires were upon the wheels of the bullock-cart, and silken curtains hid the woman. Sahib, I made no haste in their conveyance, for the wind parted the curtains and I saw Her. When they returned from pilgrimage the boy that was Her husband had died, and I saw her again in the bullockBy God, these Hindus are fools! What was it to me whether She was Hindu or Jain-scavenger, leper or whole? cart. |