He stopped, and the pack slipped to the grass. Then he broke into a flood of rapid speech in his own tongue, gesticulating violently; occasionally indicating the house with a sweep of his hand in that direction. As he talked he worked himself up to further wrath—his voice rose almost to a shout sometimes, and his face was not pleasant to see. Once or twice he held his left hand out, and Norah saw that it was bandaged.
For a minute or two she was badly frightened. Then, watching him, she suddenly came to the conclusion that she had nothing to fear—that he was telling her something he wanted her to know. She listened, trying hard to catch some word in the flood of fluent foreign speech, and twice she thought she made out the name of Ram Das. Then he finished abruptly with almost the one word of Hindustani she knew, since it was one the old hawker had taught her. "SUMJA," ("Do you understand?") he hurled at her.
Norah shook her head.
"No, I don't 'SUMJA,'" she said: but her tone was friendly, and some of the anger melted from the Indian's face, and was succeeded by a quick relief. "Can't you speak English? You know Ram Das—Ram Das?" she repeated, hoping that the name might convey something to him. To her immense relief, the effect was instantaneous.
"Know Ram Das," said the man, struggling for words. "Him—him." He swept the horizon vaguely with his hand.
"I know Ram Das," Norah put in. "Him good man."
The Hindu nodded violently. His face was natural again, and suddenly he smiled at her. "You a meesis?" he asked. "Ram Das say l'il meesis."
"I'm little meesis," Norah said promptly. It was the old man's title for her. "Did Ram Das send you?"
"Him send me," said the man, with evident pleasure in finding the word. He struggled again for English, but finally gave it up, and held out his left hand to her silently.
"Why, you're hurt!" Norah said. "Is that why Ram Das sent you?"