“I went to-day to old Turroo, to ask him for a few cowries, or a bit of a chupatti for Gyannia—she was crying with hunger, and calling for food.”
“And what did he give thee?”
“He smote me a blow on the back with his staff”—pointing to a weal on his shoulder. “He said I was a devil’s spawn, good for nothing; like thee—a beggar.”
“I would not be as I am, but I have never had a chance—never one chance.” And, ravenous as he was, Chūnnee the famished yielded half his cake in answer to his son’s wistful and expectant eyes.
When darkness had fallen on the village, the inhabitants went to bed like the birds—it saved oil—though there were a few budmashes who sat up all night and gambled; each visiting the other’s house in turn, and providing light and drink. Yes, drink—drink, from the fatal mowra tree. The fever of gambling seemed to be all over the land. Some gambled away their money, clothes, tools, cattle, but this gang kept their proceedings secret—yea, even from their nearest neighbours. Chūnnee had never gambled.
As, by degrees, the children were called in, and the houses shut, the village grew dark and quiet. About twelve o’clock, Chūnnee rose, and felt for his krooplie (a mattock with a short handle); then he opened the door and looked forth; there was not a sound to be heard, save the breathing of the children and the distant howling of a pack of jackals. There were the clear cold stars in the sky, showing above the opposite wall. Should he do it? Oh, if Heaven would but send him a sign! It seemed to him that his devout wish was instantly fulfilled, for at that moment Gyannia turned in her sleep, moaning her frequent and pitiful cry when awake, “I am hungry.”
CHAPTER II.
Chūnnee had now received his answer; he stole forth, and crept like a shadow from wall to wall, down a series of narrow paths, till he came to a house standing alone in an open space—a notable abode, for a tree grew through the roof. There was no gate to the outer yard, no dog. The door was closed—needless to try it; he must work his way through the mud wall at the back, and crawl in. The baking of many seasons’ suns had effectually hardened this impediment, and he strove for an hour, listening for sounds with intense trepidation, whilst the sweat poured down his face. At last he had scraped a sufficiently large aperture—he was slender to leanness. He crept through, but his usual bad luck pursued him; his head came violently against a brass chattie that fell with a clang enough to waken the dead. It effectually aroused the old man, who awoke and struck a match, and showed Chūnnee that he had come too late!
The light displayed a deep hole in the floor, an empty hole. The door was ajar; the treasure was already stolen; and Chūnnee stood there, krooplie in hand, with the cavity in the wall to speak for him—the convicted thief!
Old Turroo’s piercing shrieks of “murder” and “dacoity” assembled a dozen people in less than three minutes. Yea, truly, he had been robbed! A box lay outside empty, and Chūnnee the coolie, the ne’er-do-well, had come to this!