“I still wonder that the English don’t ‘get’ the Little Man, Nagar.”
“The Government regards him as harmless because he speaks of Soul-force. It deals with precedents; Mahatma-ji with ideals——”
“You think the Government will arrest him sooner or later?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Won’t that stop or hurt the work?”
“I remember,” said Nagar, “hearing the school children in New York sing, ‘John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave, but his Soul goes marching on.’ A spiritual beginning never stops. Mahatma-ji has already brought his few spiritual principles into matter, into action.”
“Tunnel,” said Dicky.
“Night and day Mahatma-ji has been preparing his entire people to stand quiet and hateless; no matter what happens to him,” Nagar went on with a smile. “He tells them that in the event of his imprisonment, or even of his martyrdom, they would only wound his spirit, by answering the shedding of blood with blood——”
They talked late. For fully an hour after Nagar left, Dicky sat by the open window, smoking to keep the insects away. Tobacco did not entirely quench the stale tired smell of the town. Even after he put out the light, sleepless hours passed, so it was late in the forenoon when he awoke, hearing cries in the street below. He crossed to the window.
“Hindu Mussultmanki jai!” a voice cried. This he took to mean a native impulse to promote Hindu and Moslem unity, or something of the sort. Also he heard the cry repeatedly, “Mahatma Gandhiki jai!” Also Gandhi’s name associated with the names of “Kitchlew and Satyapal,” native leaders in Amritsar, of whom Nagar had spoken last night. Presently there was a knock at his door. A serious but friendly young Hindu in student’s garb bowed, entered and walked to the center of the room, saying in careful English: