THE VISIT OF THE WASHEEMAN. 
standing in a respectful position, awaiting the counting 
of the clothes. Master comes in, looks, and shouts 
out for the boy to come with the washing-book, 
and see that everything is correct. ^^Swami/^ replies the 
kitchen coolie, coming running into the house, having 
evidently been interrupted in rubbing himself all over 
with coconut oil, for his skin is all sleek and shining, 
and his long hair hanging down his back has just had 
a good soaking. In this state he presents himself before 
his now extremely irritated master, who gives vent to 
some hurried exclamation, upon which the coolie hastily 
rushes back to the kitchen, from which he again speedily 
emerges, carrying a smoking red-hot firestick, being 
under the impression that master wanted to smoke ! 
The firestick is snatched from his hand, and pitched 
out beyond the verandah, master seizes him by the 
neck, giving him a good shake, telling him to send in 
the boy, but the hand is quickly withdrawn as if 
it had been stung, shaken, and raised to his nostrils, 
and found to have a strong smell of rancid oil. The 
hand is raised high in the air, and the coolie seems 
to have a very shrewd idea for what purpose, for 
he makes a dart to the kitchen, shouting out, “Appu 
aiya ! ” But his foot slips on the verandah drain, and 
he comes down with a smash upon his seat. Slowly 
he raises himself up, places the palms of his hands 
upon “the twa saft cushions,” crying out alternately 
Aiyo swami,'' ^^VannanvandaraduJ’^ The 
boy was not very far away, and both saw and heard all 
these ongoings. He became perfectly aware, that,, 
come of it what would, his presence could no longer 
be put off, for, the longer he stopped away, or concealed 
himself, would just made matters worse, and his master 
more angry. So he makes for the kitchen, and gets 
hold of a towel, which he dips in cold water, and 
applies to that part of his head which had been 
bruised on his tumble through the window. In this 
state he slowly limps into the bungalow, saying, 
“Beg pardon, master please excuse, very sore head,” 
and he sat down on the fioor of the bedroom, groan- 
ing heavily, at the same time producing the washing- 
book. “Get up,” cries master, in a ruthless manner, 
“ the clothes are all arranged on the bed, and you 
can’t count them, sitting there.” So the boy placed 
the palms of his hands flat upon the floor, and raised 
his body slowly up by the tension on his arms. He 
then opened the washing-book, in which the clothes 
had all been entered when given out, and proceedeel 
to the edge of the bed, upon which they were all 
laid out, ranged in proper order. He counts the soeks, 
ondUy irandu, mmiduy nalu, &c. , consults his book, says, 
“Bight,” and makes a note in it to that effect. 
