His irritation grew as the days passed bringing continued ill-luck. But what wonder, he said, when the fish were fed and pampered by the priests morning and evening, that they would not take his lure? For his part he did not believe there was a fin in any other pool in the river--at least when he fished it.
"The Huzoor can see, if he chooses," said Sambo gravely.
"I suppose I can--as well as you, anyhow," retorted Bannerman.
"Then let him look." As he spoke Sambo swung himself into the branch of a cotton tree which, swaying with his weight, scattered its huge scarlet flowers on the water. Perhaps it was this, engendering a hope of food; perhaps it was the curious low whistle he made, but instantly the calm surface of the pool wavered, shifted, and broke into ripples. Sambo stretched himself full length on the branch and craned forward with his long blue neck.
"Plenty of them, Huzoor! Beauties! That one with the scar is full twenty sirs weight. See! I will catch it."
He slid from the branch like an otter to reappear a second afterwards with the fish bent round his neck like a yoke of silver.
"It is bad luck," he continued, "and the Huzoor must do puja[[29]] to the great god. That is the only way."
Bannerman's face was a study, and to soothe him I remarked that I had been lucky enough without any one's help.
"How does the Huzoor know?" asked Sambo boldly. "If he had been up by dawn he might have thought otherwise, since the blood of the cock I sacrificed in his name still reddens the feet of Ishwara."
"The devil you did," I exclaimed laughing; "then sacrifice two for Bannerman sahib to-morrow."