THE DISASTER 129 



transactions with a reed pen, which he dipped fre- 

 quently in a brass inkpot filled with a sponge soaked 

 in a muddy black fluid. 



Beside him sat his son, aged two years, playing 

 with the red, lacquered cylinder in which he kept 

 his reed pens. Beharilal had two girls also, but 

 they were with the women folk in the interior of 

 the house, where he was content they should stay. 

 This was his only boy, the pride and joy of his 

 heart. Engrossed as he was in recording his gains, 

 he could not refrain from lifting his eyes now and 

 again to feast them on that rotund little body, like 

 a goblet set on two pillars. No clothing concealed 

 the tense and shiny brown skin, but there were 

 silver bracelets on the fat wrists and massive anklets 

 where deep creases divided the fat little feet from 

 the fat little legs, and a representation, in chased 

 silver, of Eve's fig leaf hung from a silver chain 

 which encircled the sphere that should have been 

 his waist. His globular head was curiously shaven. 

 From two deep pits between the bulging brow and 

 the fat cheeks that nearly squeezed out the little 

 nose between them, two black diamonds twinkled, 

 full of wonder, as the small purse mouth prattled to 

 itself softly and inarticulately of the mysteries of life. 



Suddenly a startled cry, passing into a prolonged 

 wail of fear, roused old Beharilal, and he saw a sight 

 that nearly caused him to swoon with terror. The 

 little man, a moment ago so placid and happy, was 

 shrinking back with "I don't like that thing" 



