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Rasu the Sweeper dived frantically between the fore and hind wheels of a waggon, praying to all the gods of the low-caste to ward off those wicked little bits of rending metal.... "Anyone hurt?" called Saxham. "No one, I think," called back the strong sweet voice of the Mother-Superior, who had come out of a hovel, where she was tending some sick.

Saxham whipped out the splinter with a little pair of tweezers, deftly cleansed and dressed the wound, bandaged it, and, dismissing Rasu the Sweeper with a caution, was coming across to the Reverend Mother when a chorus of cries and piercing shrieks broke forth: "Mijn jongen! mijn jongen!"

Shrill feminine clamours filled the air as the singing lash performed its work of castigation; and while Saxham scored repentance upon the hide of his blacker brother, holding him writhing, shouting, and bellowing at the full stretch of one muscular arm, as he plied the other he kept a foot on Rasu the Sweeper, so as to have him handy when his turn came.

Rasu the Sweeper, with many oaths and protestations, assured the Presence that such neglect as was apparent was owing to the incapacity of the hubshi and his myrmidons, Rasu's own share of the labour and that of his fellow-countryman being scrupulously performed. The Presence made short work of Kaffir and Hindu.

There was no answer. Saxham took the worn hunting-crop from under his arm, and with an easy movement shook out the twisted thong. "Where are those two boys? Jim Gubo! Rasu!" A pale young woman peeling potatoes at her door looked up knowingly. "They won't carry away a cabbage-leaf unless they're bribed, and they open their mouths wider every day. It's a tikkie a bucket now."

The red-turbaned martyr rolled in the unclean litter, elevating a stick-like brown leg, in the lean, muscular calf of which one of the smallest of the wicked little splinters had, as Rasu the Sweeper dived for the waggon, found a home. "That has saved you a well-earned hiding, so thank your stars for it.