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Srikanta 'You won't?' Indra replied. 'Do you mean to wait till you get a good drubbing, my boy? There, they are coming from that side. Come, let us run.'

That was a thing that I could always do to perfection. When we came upon the main thoroughfare, the evening was already dark. Lamps had been lit in the shops, and the municipal kerosene lamps on the road had begun to glimmer on the tops of their iron posts, one here and one far away, twinkling at an unconscionable distance; it was possible for a person blest with keen sight, standing near the one, to make out the other. We had left our pursuers far behind. When Indra spoke, it was with the most natural voice imaginable. My throat had become dry, but I had not even once heard him breathing hard. It was as if nothing had happened. 'What is your name?' he asked.

'Srikanta.'

'Srikanta,—good,' and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, he brought out a handful of dry leaves. He put some of them into his mouth and gave me the rest, saying, 'I've given them a good drubbing. Chew these.'

'What are they?'

'Siddhi.'

I was greatly surprised and said, 'Siddhi? I don't chew siddhi.' Indranath looked still more surprised. 'You don't?' he said. 'What an ass you are! Just chew the leaves and you'll get intoxicated. Chew them and swallow them.'