“One rupee,” repeated the Burman, not having understood.
“Tell him to chase himself,” said James.
“Still,” I mused, “if he’d give two dibs it’d almost double our stake.”
“Are you crazy?” shouted the Australian. “The sun would knock you out in an hour.”
“But two more chips might just carry us through,” I retorted, “and starving’s worse than the sun. I’ll risk it.”
“Will you sell?” demanded the Burman.
“Two rupees.”
“One!” shrieked the Oriental, “Two for the sahib’s which is new, One for yours.”
There ensued a half-hour of bargaining, but the Burman gave in at last, and, dropping two tecals in my hand, marched proudly away with that illustrious old topee, that I had won in fair barter with the Norseman, set down on his ears.
I handed one of the tecals to our scowling host and we hit the trail again. Out of sight of the hamlet we halted to don the extra suits in our bundles. The Australian gazed sorrowfully at his buskins while I slipped on my second pair of shoes. From the rags and tatters I was discarding I made a band to wind around my brow, after the fashion of Burma. Even with the top of my head exposed to sun and rain, as it was for days, I suffered no evil effects.