128 THE COBRA BUNGALOW 



repaired to the garden with all the apparatus of 

 his art, his flat snake baskets, his mongoose and 

 his crooked pipe. Having reconnoitred the ground, 

 he commenced operations by sitting down on his 

 hams and producing such ear-splitting strains from 

 the crooked pipe as might have charmed Cerberus 

 to leave his kennel at the gate of hell. Great was 

 his surprise and mortification when he heard the 

 voice of Beharilal raised in tones of unwonted 

 passion and saw a stalwart Purdaisee advancing 

 towards him armed with an iron-bound lathee, who, 

 without ceremony, nay, with abusive epithets, 

 hustled him and all his gear out of the garden. 

 Nagoo was a snake-charmer and by nature a gipsy, 

 and this treatment rankled in his dark bosom. 



Some weeks passed and the sun had scarcely 

 risen when Beharilal sat in the ota in front of his 

 house at his daily business, which began as soon 

 as his teeth were cleaned and ended about eleven 

 at night. The place was not tidy. Two or three 

 mats were spread on the floor, a spare one was rolled 

 up in a corner, several pairs of shoes were on the 

 steps, umbrellas leaned against the wall, handles 

 downwards, and a large chatty of drinking water 

 stood beside them. The Bunia himself, bare- 

 headed and bare-footed, sat cross-legged on a 

 cushion, with a wooden stool in front of him, on 

 which lay an open ledger of stout yellowish paper, 

 bound in soft red leather and nearly two feet in 

 length. In this he was carefully entering yesterday's 



