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Half-awake, Rhamon stumbled down the aisle. And then he remembered—he would see his uncle here. On the platform Rhamon was joggled and shoved about, and once his lovely turban was knocked down over his nose. He held tight to the Sahib's hand for fear he would lose him in the crowd.
Men were running along beside the train with trays of things to sell, balanced on their heads. Some were filled with fruits, others with pots of tea. Some were piled with long-handled fans of braided reeds or round ones made of bright peacock feathers. The Sahib stopped one of the men and bought Rhamon a little bag of candied pumpkin and a small red clay pot filled with sweet sticky cakes trimmed with tiny bits of beaten silver.
Suddenly Rhamon saw a tall man who looked like his father. He was glancing all about him as he came through the crowd. Then he saw Rhamon with the American Sahib and flashed them a smile. It was Rhamon's uncle who owned the shop in Lahore.
Now the American Sahib and the Mem Sahib were leaving, on another train. Already the porters were throwing their bags and bundles through the windows of one of the cars. Rhamon had just time to say good-by before the Sahib jumped on the moving train. Slowly it pulled out of the station snorting and blowing.
Rhamon watched, and waved to the Sahib, who was leaning out of the window. Then he turned and looked up into his uncle's smiling face. Hand in hand they walked out of the station. On the street his uncle hailed a songa and they climbed into a small two-seated cart, pulled by a small and scraggy horse.
For some time they jogged along through the big old city, a part of the busy, bustling traffic. Rhamon looked about him on all sides. He had never seen such wide streets, such fine buildings, such well-dressed people, so many cars.
Then they passed through the great archway of one of the thirteen old city gates, and entered the native quarter. Here everything was different. Narrow dark little streets twisted this way and that. On each side as far as Rhamon could see there were high brick houses without windows, and endless rows of tiny shops.
Cows and bullocks wandered up and down the smelly crowded lanes, stopping to snatch a wisp of hay or nibble a vegetable at one of the market stalls. Loaded donkeys trotted past, squeaking oxcarts rumbled through the crowd, teams of water buffalo and flocks of sheep and goats took up the street. It was exciting and noisy and Rhamon loved it.
In front of the small shops sat the merchants. Here a potter was making his red clay jars, spinning the big wheel with a bare brown foot. Just beyond were men dyeing cloth in great kettles, and their arms were colored to the elbows. Across the way, standing side by side, were meat markets, goldand silversmiths, fish stalls, basket shops, spice sellers and makers of sweetmeats. Some were bending over small charcoal fires. High up on a bluff he could see a great old fort—hundreds of years old, his uncle said. Rhamon could hardly wait to get out by himself. It would take him days, he thought, to explore all the wonderful sights.
In one of these crooked little lanes Rhamon's uncle had his shop. Here the tonga came to a halt and they both got out. The tiny window of the shop was filled with shining brass bowls and pots, trays and candlesticks. Inside were many shelves of beautiful things made of silver, copper and brass. Until this moment Rhamon had held on to the perfume jar, but now he handed it thankfully to his uncle who smiled and took off its many wrappings.
Truly it was a king among jars, tall and graceful and rich in color. Rhamon thought his uncle would never stop looking at-it, tilting his head on one side and then on the other. At last he said, "Yes, the jar has great beauty. When you return, say to your father that he chose well. I have never seen one more perfect. It will please the prince for whom it was ordered." And he set it up in the window of his shop.
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