however, were too full to harbour any resentment. We were quite willing to allow the blood-thirstiness of the readers to be satisfied, and the pockets of the proprietors to be filled,—along with our blessings to boot.
‘Come and occupy my house, Visri, old fellow,’ said Satish.
‘Come with us, too,’ added. ‘Let us set to work together over again.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Satish. ‘My work is elsewhere.’
‘You won't be allowed to go till you have assisted at our house-warming,’ insisted Damini.
This function was not going to be a crowded affair, Satish being the only guest. But it was all very well for him to say: ‘Come and occupy my house.’ That had already been done by his father, Harimohan,—not directly, but through a tenant. Harimohan would have entered into possession himself, but his worldly and other-worldly advisers warned him that it was best not to risk it,—a Mussulman having died there of the plague. Of course the tenant to whom it was offered ran the same spiritual and physical risks, but then why need he be told?
How we got the house out of Harimohan’s
