She listened, trying
hard to catch some word in the flood of fluent foreign speech, and
twice she thought she made out the name of Ram Das. Then he finished
abruptly with almost the one word of Hindustani she knew, since it was
one the old hawker had taught her. "SUMJA," ("Do you understand?" he
hurled at her.
Norah shook her head.
"No, I don't 'SUMJA,'" she said: but her tone was friendly, and some of
the anger melted from the Indian's face, and was succeeded by a quick
relief. "Can't you speak English? You know Ram Das--Ram Das?" she
repeated, hoping that the name might convey something to him. To her
immense relief, the effect was instantaneous.
"Know Ram Das," said the man, struggling for words. "Him--him." He swept
the horizon vaguely with his hand.
"I know Ram Das," Norah put in. "Him good man."
The Hindu nodded violently. His face was natural again, and suddenly he
smiled at her. "You a meesis?" he asked. "Ram Das say l'il meesis."
"I'm little meesis," Norah said promptly. It was the old man's title
for her. "Did Ram Das send you?"
"Him send me," said the man, with evident pleasure in finding the word.
He struggled again for English, but finally gave it up, and held out
his left hand to her silently.
"Why, you're hurt!" Norah said.
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