Bishamber knew his thoughts, and, bending down his head, whispered:
"Phatik, I have sent for your mother." The day went by. The doctor
said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was very critical.
Phatik began to cry out; "By the mark! --three fathoms. By the mark--
four fathoms. By the mark-." He had heard the sailor on the river-
steamer calling out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself
plumbing an unfathomable sea.
Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room like a whirlwind,
and began to toss from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice.
Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed,
and cried: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceased
beating up and down. He said: "Eh?"
The mother cried again: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik very slowly turned his head and, without seeing anybody, said:
"Mother, the holidays have come."
MY LORD, THE BABY
I
Raicharan was twelve years old when he came as a servant to his master's
house.
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