Masuddi looked up intelligently. “How should he have a name?” he asked. “He has not yet four months. He came with the snow. When he has a year, then he will get a name. My padre-folk--_Brahmun_--will give it.” “But you will say what it is to be,” I put in. “Nā,” said Masuddi, “the padre-folk will say--to their liking.” “Masuddi,” said Tiglath-Pileser, “speak straight words--do you beat your wife?” “Master,” replied Masuddi, “how shall I utter false talk? When she will not hear orders I beat her.” “Masuddi,” said I, “straight words--do you beat her with a stick?” Laughter rose up in him, and again he chewed the end of his garment. “According as my anger is,” he said, half turning away to hide his face, “so I beat her.” “Then she obeys?” “Then fear is and she listens. Thus it is,” said Masuddi, his face clearing to an idea, “as we servant-folk are before your Honours, so they-folk are before us.” “You may go, worthy Masuddi,” pronounced Tiglath-Pileser, “and Atma may say to Sropo, who is listening behind the water-barrel, that I have heard the words of Masuddi and they are just and reasonable, and he may go also and marry himself, but it must be done in six days, and it must not occur again.” Masuddi and Sropo are two of the four who pull my rickshaw. When I am not taking carriage exercise they will do almost anything else, except sew or cook, but I have discovered that the thing they really love to be set at is to paint. In the spring the paling required a fresh brown coat, and in a moment of inspired economy I decided that Masuddi and his men should be entrusted with it. Never was task more willingly undertaken. With absorption they mixed the pigment and thewi-oil, squeezing it with their hands; with joy they laid it on, competing among themselves, like Tom Sawyer’s schoolfellows. “Lo, it is beautiful!” Masuddi would exclaim after each brushful, drawing back to look at it. I think they were sorry when it was done.