But watch him! Keep hold of him!"
So again the babu was propelled on an involuntary course, and
Warrington proceeded to pinch certain of his fat parts to encourage
him to mount the box with greater speed; but his helplessness became
so obvious that Warrington turned friend and shoved him up at last,
keeping hold of his loin-cloth when he wedged his own muscular
anatomy into the small space left.
"To the right," said the babu, pointing. And the risaldar drove to
the right.
"To the left," said the babu, and Warrington made note of the fact
that they were not so very far away from the House-of-the-Eight-Half-
brothers.
Soon the babu began to scratch his stomach.
"What's the matter?" demanded Warrington.
"They said they would cut my belly open, sahib! A belly is so
sensitive!"
Warrington laughed sympathetically; for the fear was genuine and
candidly expressed. The babu continued scratching.
"To the right," he said after a while, and the risaldar drove to the
right, toward where a Hindu temple cast deep shadows, and a row of
trees stood sentry in spasmodic moonlight. In front of the temple,
seated on a mat, was a wandering fakir of the none-too-holy type. By
his side was a flat covered basket.
"Look, sahib!" said the babu; and Warrington looked.
"My belly crawls!"
"What's the matter, man?"
"He is a fakir.
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