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 ONE WHO HAD EATEN MY RICE

HE punkah swings freely for a space, then gradually shortens its stride; hovers for a moment, oscillating gently, in answer to the feeble jerking of the cord; almost stops and then is galvanized into a series of violent, spasmodic leaps and bounds, each one less vigorous than the last, until once more the flapping canvas fringe is almost still. It is by signs such as these that you may know that Ûmat, the punkah-puller, is sleeping the sleep of the just.

If you look behind the higli sereen which guards the doorway, you will see him; and without moving, if the afternoon is very warm and still, you may occasionally hear his soft, regular breathing, and the gentle murmur with which his nose is wont lo mark the rhythm of his slumber. An old cotton handkerchief is bound about his head in such a manner that the top of his scalp is exposed, the short bristles of hair upon it standing erect in a circular enclosure, like the trainers in a garden of young sîrih vines. On his back he wears an old, old coat of discoloured khaki, once the property of a dead policeman. The Government buttons have been taken away from him by a relentless inspector of police, and Ûmat has supplied their place with thorns, cunningly contrived