It was to this place that Grish Chunder Dé was travelling, there formally to take over charge of the district. But the news of his coming had gone before. Bengalis were as scarce as poodles among the simple Borderers, who cut each other’s heads open with their long spades and worshipped impartially at Hindu and Mahomedan shrines. They crowded to see him, pointing at him, and diversely comparing him to a gravid milch-buffalo, or a broken-down horse, as their limited range of metaphor prompted. They laughed at his police-guard, and wished to know how long the burly Sikhs were going to lead Bengali apes. They inquired whether he had brought his women with him, and advised him explicitly not to tamper with theirs. It remained for a wrinkled hag by the roadside to slap her lean breasts as he passed, crying, “I have suckled six that could have eaten six thousand of _him_. The Government shot them, and made this That a king!” Whereat a blue-turbaned huge-boned plough-mender shouted, “Have hope, mother o’ mine! He may yet go the way of thy wastrels.” And the children, the little brown puff-balls, regarded curiously. It was generally a good thing for infancy to stray into Orde Sahib’s tent, where copper coins were to be won for the mere wishing, and tales of the most authentic, such as even their mothers knew but the first half of. No! This fat black man could never tell them how Pir Prith hauled the eye-teeth out of ten devils; how the big stones came to lie all in a row on top of the Khusru hills, and what happened if you shouted through the village-gate to the gray wolf at even, “Badl Khas is dead.” Meantime Grish Chunder Dé talked hastily and much to Tallantire, after the manner of those who are “more English than the English,”—of Oxford and “home,” with much curious book-knowledge of bump-suppers, cricket-matches, hunting-runs, and other unholy sports of the alien. “We must get these fellows in hand,” he said once or twice uneasily; “get them well in hand, and drive them on a tight rein. No use, you know, being slack with your district.” And a moment later Tallantire heard Debendra Nath Dé, who brotherliwise had followed his kinsman’s fortune and hoped for the shadow of his protection as a pleader, whisper in Bengali, “Better are dried fish at Dacca than drawn swords at Delhi. Brother of mine, these men are devils, as our mother said. And you will always have to ride upon a horse!”