“He gave you some?”
“No, no. I paid a rupee for it; and here is the empty bottle.”
“Ram Singh!” said Mr. Percy, very sternly. “Do you expect me to believe that you went and paid the Tahsildar sahib a rupee for a little bottle of medicine, when you are so poor that you cannot get food enough to eat?”
“He is lying,” broke in the Tahsildar, catching at this straw, “they are all liars, these spawn of Shaitan!”
“Ram Singh,” continued Mr. Percy, with a grave voice, “I want to know where you got that rupee.”
“I sold some haldi to the poojawalas; a few pice worth to one, and a few anas worth to another, until I got the rupee.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Percy, “and then you wasted it on a bottle of medicine.”
“Wasted! wasted, sahib! wasted, when my only boy, the light of my eyes, the heart of my heart, was ill, and I was afraid he was dying! Had he died, where would I have been? My honor, my house, my all! How could I think of the loss of a rupee, even if it was the last one I should ever see?”
“It is well,” said Mr. Percy; “but did you ever get any more medicine?”
“Yes,” he replied, “this morning I got another bottle, and here it is,” holding it up.