"How much money will you give us to let you go? I want two thousand rupees."
"Ai Méré Sahib! Méré Sahib!" cried the wretch; "two thousand rupees! where am I to get them? I have not a cowrie in the world."
"It is a lie," said Motee and several others; "you have thousands of rupees which you have bullied poor Thugs out of; we could name a hundred instances in which you have taken money from us: how dare you deny it?"
"Look here," said I, "here is the roomal, and you know the use of it; say whether you will give the money or not."
"I will give it," said he; "I will swear on the pickaxe to do so, and do you come with me and take it."
"Ay," said I, "and be taken too ourselves! no, no, friend Bhutteara, do not try to throw dust on our beards after that fashion. Inshalla! the people who could catch you have sharper wits than you seemed to give them credit for: no, man, I was but joking with thee—where is all thy wealth concealed?"
"You may kill me if you will," said he, "but I give no answer to that question."
"Ah, well," cried I, "you may think better of it when you are choking; now you two hold him fast, and take the bag off his shoulders." They did so. I threw the roomal about his neck, and tightened it till he was almost choked: he made several attempts to speak, and at last I relaxed my hold a little; but he could not utter a word—fear of death had paralyzed his powers of utterance.
"Give him some water," said I, "it will wash down his fright." He took it, and fell at my feet, and implored me to spare him. I spurned and kicked him. "Where is the treasure?" I said: "you have felt the tightening of the roomal once, beware how you risk it again: where is the treasure?"