He bade the Sahib good-by and returning the knife, jumped into the shikara which lay alongside. This was the time of day Rhamon liked best. As he paddled the short distance to his own little houseboat, he watched the reflections in the river. One sun up in the sky, and one down there in the water!
Subro was resting on the tiny deck, smoking his hubble-bubble pipe. From the window drifted the spicy smell of curry. On the river bank close by, Rhamon's mother was pounding the rice. Thud—thud—thud! came the heavy sound of the pole as she let it fall. Rhamon could hear, the jingle-jingle of her many silver bracelets.
"Come here, Rhamon," said Subro, as the shikara drew alongside. "I have been waiting to speak with you."
Rhamon looked up quickly into his father's face. Was he to be scolded for staying away so long? But no, the brown eyes were smiling and kind. Rhamon tied the shikara and climbed up onto the deck.
