SIGNS OF THE TIMES
CHAPTER I
AN April day was nearing its close. Bijai Mitra sat card-playing in Gopal Sarkar's reception room. Suddenly his youngest son, darting into the room, said breathlessly, "Father! come home quickly; there is a telegram." At the word "telegram" the occupants of the reception room were alarmed. The arrival of a telegram is not a daily event in villages, and as a rule telegrams bring ill news—news of misfortune.
Bijai Mitra, throwing down his cards, thrust his feet into his canvas slippers and went home at a quick pace. The Telegraph Chuprassi, heated by his walk from the distant station, sat looking very important in the verandah at the entrance, with his great staff beside him. He was surrounded by a host of curious boys and girls. Having signed the receipt, Bijai Mitra opened the telegram with trembling hands. Instantly his face became suffused with the light of joy. Entering the inner room, he found his wife anxiously awaiting his coming. "The news is good"—he said.
