“He's got it,” says Sadler, speaking husky. “Worse'n I did.”
“Got what?” I says.
Sadler's face had grown tired, sort of heavy and worn, while he was looking down at Kiyi. “Born with it. He got injected with the extract of misery beforehand,” he says. “He was born wishing he wasn't. I know what it is, but he don't know what it is, Kiyi don't. He don't know what's the matter. First thing he saw was the cholera.”
All about the gardens there was a tinkle of bells made by the wind blowing them, and a gong kept muttering somewhere. Kiyi rolled over on the edge of Sadler's yellow robe, curled up, and shut his eyes, and went to sleep. He had no clothes but a green loin cloth. His hair was done up in a topknot. Then I looked at Sadler, and then at Kiyi, and then I thought he was the littlest and saddest thing in Asia.
When I was about ready to sail, I took the Shway Dagohn road again, with Stevey Todd, thinking Sadler might have messages to send. It was a windy afternoon. The hot dust was blowing in the road. The yellow old man sat inside the gate alone. There were no children under the trees. He came out of his dream, and motioned to stop us, and mumbled something about “Tha-Thana-Peing,” which was the Kid's title in that neighbourhood. Whether it meant “His Solemn High Mightiness,” or meant “The Man That Pays the Bills,” I didn't know. “No go, no go,” mumbles the yellow old man.
“Ain't you keeping school to-day?” I says.
“Dead,” mumbles the yellow old man.
“Who? Not Sadler! No. Tha-Thana!”
“Kishhatriya,” he mumbles, “Kiyi,” and he fell back into his absent-mindedness. So we went past him to the little temple behind the gilded cone. Most of the monks were sitting around it on the grass, and Irish, with his hair remarkable wild, among them, and against a pillar sat Sadler, bent over Kiyi's body that was on his knees. One of the yellow robes recited a monotonous chant. Maybe it was a funeral service, or maybe they were going over their law and gospels for the benefit of Sadler. He looked up, and the reciter stopped, and it was all quiet. Sadler says:
“See here, boys, what's the use? They can't make an Oriental of me. This ain't right, Tommy. Now, is it? No, it ain't right.” He looked old and weighted down. He looked as old as a pyramid. “See here,” he says, “Tommy, what's the idea of this?”