“Yes, criminals with codes and rituals of crime, gods and godlings of crime, and a hundred songs and sayings in praise of it. Puzzling, isn’t it?”
“It’s simply dreadful. They ought to be put down at once. Are there many of them?”
“Not more than about sixty thousand in this province, for many of the tribes broadly described as criminal are really vagabond and criminal only on occasion, while others are being settled and reclaimed. They are of great antiquity, a legacy from the past, the golden, glorious Aryan past of Max Müller, Birdwood and the rest of your spindrift philosophers.”
An orderly brought a card to Orde, who took it with a movement of irritation at the interruption, and handed it to Pagett: a large card with a ruled border in red ink, and in the centre in school-boy copper-plate, Mr. Dina Nath. “Give salaam,” said the civilian, and there entered in haste a slender youth, clad in a closely fitting coat of gray homespun, tight trousers, patent-leather shoes, and a small black velvet cap. His thin cheek twitched, and his eyes wandered restlessly, for the young man was evidently nervous and uncomfortable, though striving to assume a free-and-easy air.
“Your honour may perhaps remember me,” he said in English, and Orde scanned him keenly.
“I know your face, somehow. You belonged to the Shershah district, I think, when I was in charge there?”
“Yes, sir, my father is writer at Shershah, and your honour gave me a prize when I was first in the Middle School examination five years ago. Since then I have prosecuted my studies, and I am now second year’s student in the Mission College.”
“Of course: you are Kedar Nath’s son—the boy who said he liked geography better than play or sugar-cakes, and I didn’t believe you. How is your father getting on?”
“He is well, and he sends his salaam, but his circumstances are depressed, and he also is down on his luck.”
“You learn English idioms at the Mission College, it seems.”