“How much for to go to the other side of the river—how much pence?”
“Twopence,” replied I; but not caring to take him, I continued, “but you only pay one penny to cross the bridge.”
“I know very well, but suppose you take me?”
He was a well-looking, not very dark man; his turban was of coloured cloth—his trousers not very wide; and I could not comprehend whether he was a Turk or not; I afterwards found out he was a Parsee, from the East Indies. He spoke very plain English. As he decided upon crossing, I received him, and shoved off; when we were in the middle of the stream, he requested me to pull a little way up. “That will do,” said he, opening his bundle, and spreading a carpet on the stern flooring of the wherry. He then rose, looking at the sun, which was then rising in all its majesty, bowed to it, with his hands raised, three times, then knelt on the carpet, and touched it several times with his forehead, again rose to his feet, took some common field flowers from his vest, and cast them into the stream, bowed again, folded up his carpet, and begged me to pull on shore.
“I say my prayers,” said the man, looking at me with his dark, piercing eye.
“Very proper; whom did you say them to?”
“To my God.”
“But why don’t you say them on shore?”
“Can’t see sun in the house; suppose I go out little boys laugh and throw mud. Where no am seen, river very proper place.”
We landed, and he took out threepence, and offered it to me. “No, no,” said I; “I don’t want you to pay for saying your prayers.”