'Very well, then,' he said, 'let me bribe those watchmen.'
'Where is the money to come from?'
'I can loot the bazar,' he burst out, without blenching.
'Leave all that alone. I have my ornaments, they will serve.'
'But,' said Amulya, 'it strikes me that the cashier cannot be bribed. Never mind, there is another and simpler way.'
'What is that?'
'Why need you hear it? It is quite simple.'
'Still, I should like to know.'
Amulya fumbled in the pocket of his tunic and pulled out, first a small edition of the Gita, which he placed on the table,—and then a little pistol, which he showed me, but said nothing further.
Horror! It did not take him a moment to make up his mind to kill our good old cashier![1] To look at his frank, open face one would not have thought him capable of hurting a fly, but how different were the words which came from his mouth. It was clear that the cashier's place in the world meant nothing real to him; it was a mere vacancy, lifeless, feelingless, with only stock phrases from the Gita,—Who kills the body kills naught!
'Whatever do you mean, Amulya?' I exclaimed
- ↑ The cashier is the official who is most in touch with the ladies of a zamindar's household, directly taking their requisitions for household stores and doing their shopping for them, and so he becomes more a member of the family than the others.—Tr.
