"Oh, he is your patron, I know. You've been a good little chap, and I want to give you a present."
Chinna-Sawmy's attitude stiffened.
"What would you like?"
A long and thoughtful pause ensued—during which Chinna-Sawmy twisted his toes, with incredible flexibility.
"May I tell the plain truth?" he asked at last.
"Of course, what else?"
"Then Master please, I taking camera!"
Here was a most unexpected request! Mallender had visions of making a donation of ten rupees, or an old, but useful silver watch. The camera, bought in extravagant days, had cost ten pounds. Well, after all, he would not want it again. No need to lug the thing to England. Chinna-Sawmy was an expert now (the extra thumbs were surprisingly useful) and could make his livelihood as a photographer. The camera would represent his fortune; and the boy had been wonderfully attentive in illness; lying outside his door ready for a call, day or night.
"All right, Chinna-Sawmy," he said, "it is yours."
Then Chinna-Sawmy straightway fell down upon his knees, and kissed his master's boots.