Later still they stood outside the door of his room and looked at each other. “There is a European doctor at Bhai Gunj,” said Captain Sparks. “He may be here with luck by six o’clock to-morrow afternoon—this afternoon.” He looked at his watch and saw that it was past midnight. “Bundal Singh has gone for him, and Juddoo for the native apothecary at Bhugsi—but he will be useless. Robertson will be over immediately. He has seen cases of it, I know.”
A thick sound came from the room they had left, and they hurried back into it.
“Water?” repeated the Commissioner; “yes, as much as he likes. I wish to God we had some ice.”
“Then, sir, I may take leave?” It was the unctuous voice of the native apothecary.
“No, you may not. Damn you, I suppose you can help to rub him? Quick, Sparks; the turpentine!”
Next day at noon arrived Hari Lal, who had travelled many hours and many miles with a petition to the Chota Lât Sahib, wherein he and his village implored that the goats might eat the young shoots in the forest as aforetime; for if not—they were all poor men—how should the goats eat at all? Hari Lal arrived upon his beast, and saw from afar off that there was a chuprassie in red and gold upon the verandah whose favour would cost money. So he dismounted at a considerable and respectful distance, and approached humbly, with salaams and words that were suitable to a chuprassie in red and gold. The heat stood fiercely about the bungalow, and it was so silent that a pair of sparrows scolding in the verandah made the most unseemly wrangle.
Bundal Singh had not the look of business. He sat immovable upon his haunches, with his hands hanging between his knees. His head fell forward heavily, his eyes were puffed, and he regarded Hari Lal with indifference.
“O most excellent, how can a poor man seeking justice speak with the Lât Sahib? The matter is a matter of goats——”