“Well—I do not wish to return to Spiti—yet,” he said reflectively. “But about the bath—how often? Besides, it is contrary to my religion, now I come to think of it.”
“Change your religion, then. Now no more argument. Which way has the Lama gone?”
“Oh, as to that—I suppose I could discover that. How much will you pay me?”
“Thirty rupees a month, clean clothing, two blankets and your food.”
“That is almost no pay at all,” said Dawa Tsering. “To make a profit at that rate, I should have to eat so much that my belly would be at risk of bursting. There is discomfort in so much eating.”
“They would give you enough to eat and no more, without money, in the jail,” said Ommony, “and you would have to obey a babu, and be shaved by a contractor, and make mats without reward. And if you were very well behaved, they would let you rake the head-jemadar’s garden. Moreover, Tin Lal, who is also in the jail, would mock you at no risk to himself, since you would have no knife; and because he is clever and malignant he would constantly get you into trouble, laughing when you were punished. And since he is only in the jail for a short time, and you would be in for a long time, there would be no remedy. However, suit yourself.”
“You are a hard man, Ommonee!”
“I am. I have warned you.”
“Oh, well: I suppose it is better so. A soft knife is quickly dulled, and men are the same way. Yielding men are not dependable. Pay me a month’s wages in advance, and to-morrow we will buy the blankets.”
But beginnings are beginnings. A foundation not well laid destroys the whole edifice.