Page:Little Clay Cart (Ryder 1905).djvu/66

30 Māthura. Oh, sir, a shampooer owes me ten gold-pieces, and he got away from us. Hold him, hold him! Stop, stop! I see you from here.

Gambler. You may run to hell, if they'll take you in;

With Indra, the god, you may stay:

For there's never a god can save your skin,

While Māthura wants his pay.

Māthura. Oh, whither flee you, nimble rambler,

You that cheat an honest gambler?

You that shake with fear and shiver,

All a-tremble, all a-quiver;

You that cannot trip enough,

On the level ground and rough;

You that stain your social station,

Family, and reputation!

Gambler. [Examining the footprints.] Here he goes. And here the tracks are lost.

Māthura. [''Gazes at the footprints. Reflectively''.] Look! The feet are turned around. And the temple hasn't any image. [After a moment's thought.] That rogue of a shampooer has gone into the temple with his feet turned around.

Gambler. Let's follow him.

Māthura. All right. [They enter the temple and take a good look, then make signs to each other.]

Gambler. What! a wooden image?

Māthura. Of course not. It's stone. [He shakes it with all his might, then makes signs.] What do we care? Come, let's have a game. [He starts to gamble as hard as he can.]

Shampooer. [''Trying with all his might to repress the gambling fever. Aside''.] Oh, oh!

Oh, the rattle of dice is a charming thing,

When you haven't a copper left;