Again a
servant came to him with food, but his mouth was dry, and he could only
drink and return to the decimals in his brain. And the river was still
rising. Peroo, in a mat shelter coat, crouched at his feet, watching now
his face and now the face of the river, but saying nothing.
At last the Lascar rose and floundered through the mud towards the
village, but he was careful to leave an ally to watch the boats.
Presently he returned, most irreverently driving before him the priest
of his creed--a fat old man, with a grey beard that whipped the wind
with the wet cloth that blew over his shoulder. Never was seen so
lamentable a guru.
"What good are offerings and little kerosene lamps and dry grain,"
shouted Peroo, "if squatting in the mud is all that thou canst do? Thou
hast dealt long with the Gods when they were contented and well-wishing.
Now they are angry. Speak to them!"
"What is a man against the wrath of Gods?" whined the priest, cowering
as the wind took him. "Let me go to the temple, and I will pray there."
"Son of a pig, pray here! Is there no return for salt fish and curry
powder and dried onions? Call aloud! Tell Mother Gunga we have had
enough. Bid her be still for the night. I cannot pray, but I have been
serving in the Kumpani's boats, and when men did not obey my orders I--"
A flourish of the wire-rope colt rounded the sentence, and the priest,
breaking free from his disciple, fled to the village.
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