did not cook it with that part of its anatomy intact, as he surely
would do unless watched--and then strolled ahead a little way along
the road.

The fakir was squatting in the distance, on a big white stone, and in
the quiet of the gloaming Cunningham could hear his coarse, lewd voice
tossing crumbs of abuse and mockery to the seven or eight villagers who
squatted near him--half-amused, half-frightened, and altogether
credulous.

Even as he drew nearer Cunningham could not understand a word of what
the fakir said, but the pantomime was obvious. His was the voice and
the manner of the professional beggar who has no more need to whine but
still would ingratiate. It was the bullying, brazen swagger and the
voice that traffics in filth and impudence instead of wit; and, in
payment for his evening bellyful he was pouring out abuse of Cunningham
that grew viler and yet viler as Cunningham came nearer and the fakir
realized that his subject could not understand a word of it.

The villagers looked leery and eyed Cunningham sideways at each fresh
sally. The fakir grew bolder, until one of his listeners smothered an
open laugh in both hands and rolled over sideways. Cunningham came
closer yet, half-enamoured of the weird scene, half-curious to discover
what the stone could be on which the fakir sat.

The fakir grew nervous. Perhaps, after all, this was one of those
hatefully clever sahibs who know enough to pretend they do not know!
The abuse and vile innuendo changed to more obsequious, less obviously
filthy references to other things than Cunningham's religion, likes,
and pedigree, and the little crowd of men who had tacitly encouraged