justice to speak of, and a great deal of cholera, and by no means
three meals a day for everybody, or even two. But nobody was
discontented with troubles that came from the gods and the
Maharajah, and talk of greased cartridges would not have been
understood. Thinking of this, Abdul often said to Tooni, his wife;
'The service of the sahib is good and profitable, but in old age
peace is better, even though we are compelled to pay many rupees to
the tax-gatherers of the Maharajah.' Tooni always agreed, and when
the khaber came that all the memsahibs and the children had been
killed by the sepoys, she agreed weeping. They were always so kind
and gentle, the memsahibs, and the little ones, the babalok--the
babalok! Surely the sepoys had become like the tiger-folk. Then
she picked up Sonny Sahib and held him tighter than he liked. She
had crooned with patient smiles over many of the babalok in her
day, but from beginning to end, never a baba like this. So strong
he was, he could make old Abdul cry out, pulling at his beard, so
sweet-tempered and healthy that he would sleep just where he was
put down, like other babies of Rubbulgurh. Tooni grieved deeply
that she could not give him a bottle, and a coral, and a
perambulator, and often wondered that he consented to thrive
without these things, but the fact remains that he did. He even
allowed himself to be oiled all over occasionally for the good of
his health, which was forbearing in a British baby. And always
when Abdul shook his finger at him and said--


'Gorah pah howdah, hathi pah JEEN!
Jeldi bag-gia, Warren HasTEEN!'[1]