“Yes.”
“Did you bite her ear off?”
“I think it came off.”
“Did you swallow it?”
“Iss?” (who knows?)
A further ineffectual search left no doubt as to what had become of the ear. Litiana, smarting under her injuries, haled her sister before the native court, presided over by that magistrate who, in happier days, used to beguile the tedium of the bench with music on the Jew’s-harp. The damages were assessed at five shillings, and the little rift made the music between the sisters dumb.
“Was my ear only worth five shillings?” complained the elder.
“Is it sisterly to drag one’s sister to court like an Indian coolie-woman?” asked Makereta.
I don’t know whether they have ever met since. Makereta soon after this fell in love with a mild-mannered policeman, married him in defiance of her relations, and now rules him with an iron rod somewhere down Nadroga way. They both asked me to help them to bring it about, I being their father, which meant that I was to supply the pigs for the wedding-breakfast.