issue, he had
forgotten the blows; denied that any blows had been dealt that unseemly
first night under the pines. He asked neither pension nor retaining
fee, but, if they deemed him worthy, would they write him a
testimonial? It might be useful to him later, if others, their
friends, came over the Passes. He begged them to remember him in their
future greatnesses, for he 'opined subtly' that he, even he, Mohendro
Lal Dutt, MA of Calcutta, had 'done the State some service'.

They gave him a certificate praising his courtesy, helpfulness, and
unerring skill as a guide. He put it in his waist-belt and sobbed with
emotion; they had endured so many dangers together. He led them at
high noon along crowded Simla Mall to the Alliance Bank of Simla, where
they wished to establish their identity. Thence he vanished like a
dawn-cloud on Jakko.

Behold him, too fine-drawn to sweat, too pressed to vaunt the drugs in
his little brass-bound box, ascending Shamlegh slope, a just man made
perfect. Watch him, all Babudom laid aside, smoking at noon on a cot,
while a woman with turquoise-studded headgear points south-easterly
across the bare grass. Litters, she says, do not travel as fast as
single men, but his birds should now be in the Plains. The holy man
would not stay though Lispeth pressed him. The Babu groans heavily,
girds up his huge loins, and is off again. He does not care to travel
after dusk; but his days' marches--there is none to enter them in a
book--would astonish folk who mock at his race. Kindly villagers,
remembering the Dacca drug-vendor of two months ago, give him shelter
against evil spirits of the wood. He dreams of Bengali Gods,
University text-books of education, and the Royal Society, London,
England. Next dawn the bobbing blue-and-white umbrella goes forward.

On the edge of the Doon, Mussoorie well behind them and the Plains
spread out in golden dust before, rests a worn litter in which--all the
Hills know it--lies a sick lama who seeks a River for his healing.
Villages have almost come to blows over the honour of bearing it, for
not only has the lama given them blessings, but his disciple good
money--full one-third Sahibs' prices. Twelve miles a day has the dooli
travelled, as the greasy, rubbed pole-ends show, and by roads that few
Sahibs use. Over the Nilang Pass in storm when the driven snow-dust
filled every fold of the impassive lama's drapery; between the black
horns of Raieng where