“Ignorantly? How do you mean?”
“He struck me with a bucket, of which the contents were garbage unsuitable to a man of my distinction. So I crowned him with the bucket—thus—not gently—and his head went through the bottom of the thing, so that, as it were, he wore a helmet full of smells and could no longer see. So then I smote him in the belly with my fist—thus—and with my foot—thus—as he fell. And then I came away. And there is the letter. Smell it. Behold the dirt on it, in proof I lie not. Now give me my knife, Ommonee.”
Ommony went into the hall and produced the “knife” from behind the hat-rack. Dawa Tsering thumbed the edge of the blade lovingly before thrusting the weapon into its leather scabbard inside his shirt.
“Now I am a man again,” he said devoutly. “They would better avoid me with their buckets full of filth!”
Ommony studied him in silence for a moment. “Did you ever have a bath?” he asked curiously.
“Aye. Tsiang Samdup and his chela made me take one whenever they happened to think fit. That is how I know they are not especially holy. There is something heretical about them that I do not understand.”
“I am worse than they,” said Ommony.
“No doubt. They have their good points.”
“I have none! You must wash yourself as often as I tell you, and I shall give the order oftener than they did! From now on, you are my servant.”
“But who says so?”