"What is it, Headman?" I asked.
The Headman rubbed an ankle reflectively. "The fact is," he answered, "there is no news that would interest your Honour; only just village doings, foolish doings."
"Hum," I said; "that sounds to me as if a young man had been doing something."
Several of the men smiled—"Possibly with the assistance of a girl"—and I glanced at some girls. They giggled, and the Headman said briefly:
"Maung Ka's son has run off with a girl."
"Oh!" I said, turning to Maung Ka, whom I knew well enough—a tall, fine-looking man, who was looking very gloomy. "It's a way boys have. There's no harm in it."
"Not if he can support her afterwards," said Maung Ka gruffly.
"Can't he do that?" I asked.
It appeared he couldn't. He had spent all his boyhood in a monastery "learning" till his father fetched him out. Then he went to the other extreme and levanted with a girl. "He doesn't know one end of a bullock from the other," said the father; "he can't plough or sow; he can't work; he has no common sense. That's what schooling does for a boy."
Most of the other men agreed with him, and we had a discussion on education, in which everyone took part.