There was no
doubt of his being a Bengali Brahmin.
Daleham called him.
"Hi! I say! Come here!"
When the man reached the foot of the verandah steps the assistant manager
said to him:
"I have told this sahib that you are a graduate of Calcutta University."
The Bengali salaamed carelessly and replied:
"Oah, yess, sir. I am B.A."
"Really? What is your name?" asked Dermot.
"Narain Dass, sir."
"I am sorry, Mr. Dass, that a man of your education cannot get better
employment than this," remarked Dermot.
The Bengali smiled superciliously.
"Oah, yess, I can, of course. This--" He checked himself suddenly, and his
manner became more cringing. "Yess, sir, I can with much facility procure
employment of sedentary nature. But for reasons of health I am stringently
advised by medical practitioner to engage in outdoor occupation. So I adopt
policy of 'Back to the Land.'"
"I see, Mr. Dass. Very wise of you," remarked Dermot, restraining an
inclination to smile. "You are a Brahmin, aren't you?"
"Yess, sir," replied the Bengali with pride.
"Well, Mr. Dass, I hope that your health will improve in this bracing air.
Good-morning."
"Good-morning, sir," replied the Bengali, and continued on his way.
Dermot watched his departing figure meditatively. He felt that he had got
hold of a thread, however slender, of the conspiracy against British rule.
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