THE FOUNDLING
I
IT was afternoon. The swollen Ganges of the month of Sawan was lapping the roots of the banian tree at the ghat of Motiganj. A decayed-looking boat was being moored there. Out of it stepped cautiously an aged lean-bodied Brahman. The boatman handed to him his bag, his umbrella and his stick. Taking them in one hand, with the other he extended a small silver coin, a quarter-rupee, as payment for the rowers. The boatman taking the coin, said—"Master, there are five of us, how will four annas suffice?"
"Do you mean to say that four annas is too little?"
"Huzoor, the whole will go in buying four seers of rice. Then there is the cooking pot, the wood and the salt to buy."
"There! take two more annas,"—and the Brahman, carefully and with many countings dealt eight pice into the boatman's hand. Even yet the boatman was not satisfied. He said—"Sir, five pice each after a hard day's labour is not enough. Make it the full eight annas."
