“What you can eat, so can we,” I cried. “Take the suit and bring us something.”
“Oh! We cannot take payment,” protested the babu.
“Jumping Hottentots!” screamed James. “Take pay or don’t, but stop your yapping and tell them we want something to eat.”
“I shall have prepared some food which Europeans can eat,” murmured the native in an oily voice. He harangued the group long and deliberately. An undressed female rose, hobbled to a corner of the room, lighted a fire of fagots, and squatted beside it. Though it was certainly midnight, we gave up all hope of expediting matters, and waited with set teeth. For a half-hour not a word was spoken. Then the female rose and strolled towards us, holding out—four slices of toast!
“If I’d known there was bread in this shack,” cried James, as we snatched the slices, “there’d have been damn little toasting.”
“I have worked for Europeans,” said the babu proudly, yet with a touch of sadness in his voice, “and I know they cannot eat the native bread, so I have it prepared as sahibs eat it.”
“We’ve been eating native bread for months,” mumbled James, “days anyway. You’re a bit crazy, I think. Got any rice?”
“There is rice and fish,” said the Burman, “but can you eat that too?”
“Just watch us,” said James.
The female brought a native supper, and we fell to.