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path, nervous of Flo, and Ba Pe came out with a bowl of paddy and they fed Nero and the pigeons.
There were more yells from the servants’ quarters, and the gruffer voices of men trying to stop the
quarrel. Ko S’la suffered a great deal from his wives. Ma Pu, the first wife, was a gaunt hard-faced
woman, stringy from much child-bearing, and Ma Yi, the ‘little wife’, was a fat lazy cat some years
younger. The two women fought incessantly when Flory was in headquarters and they were together.
Once when Ma Pu was chasing Ko S’la with a bamboo, he had dodged behind Flory for protection,
and Flory had received a nasty blow on the leg.
Mr Macgregor was coming up the road, striding briskly and swinging a thick walking-stick. He
was dressed in khaki pagri-cloth shirt, drill shorts and a pigsticker topi. Besides his exercises, he
took a brisk two-mile walk every morning when he could spare the time.
‘Top o’ the mornin’ to ye!’ he called to Flory in a hearty matutinal voice, putting on an Irish accent.
He cultivated a brisk, invigorating, cold-bath demeanour at this hour of the morning. Moreover, the
libellous article in the Burmese Patriot, which he had read overnight, had hurt him, and he was
affecting a special cheeriness to conceal this.
’Morning!’ Flory called back as heartily as he could manage.
Nasty old bladder of lard! he thought, watching Mr Macgregor up the road. How his bottom did
stick out in those tight khaki shorts. Like one of those beasdy middleaged scoutmasters, homosexuals
almost to a man, that you see photographs of in the illustrated papers. Dressing himself up in those
ridiculous clothes and exposing his pudgy, dimpled knees, because it is the pukka sahib thing to take
exercise before breakfast–disgusting!
A Burman came up the hill, a splash of white and magenta. It was Flory’s clerk, coming from the
tiny office, which was not far from the church. Reaching the gate, he shikoed and presented a grimy
envelope, stamped Burmese-fashion on the point of the flap.
‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Good morning. What’s this thing?’
‘Local letter, your honour. Come this morning’s post. Anonymous letter, I think, sir.’
‘Oh bother. ——All right, I’ll be down to the office about eleven.’
Flory opened the letter. It was written on a sheet of foolscap, and it ran:
MR JOHN FLORY,
SIR,–I the undersigned beg to suggest and WARN to your honour certain useful pieces of information whereby your
honour will be much profited, sir.
Sir, it has been remarked in Kyauktada your honour’s great friendship and intimacy with Dr Veraswami, the Civil Surgeon,
frequenting with him, inviting him to your house, etc. Sir, we beg to inform you that the said Dr Veraswami is NOT A GOOD
MAN and in no ways a worthy friend of European gentlemen. The doctor is eminently dishonest, disloyal and corrupt public
servant. Coloured water is he providing to patients at the hospital and selling drugs for own profit, besides many bribes,
extortions, etc. Two prisoners has he flogged with bamboos, afterwards rubbing chilis into the place if relatives do not send
money. Besides this he is implicated with the Nationalist Party and lately provided material for a very evil article which
appeared in the Burmese Patriot attacking Mr Macgregor, the honoured Deputy Commissioner.
He is also sleeping by force with female patients at the hospital.
Wherefore we are much hoping that your honour will ESCHEW same Dr Veraswami and not consort with persons who
can bring nothing but evil upon your honour.
And shall ever pray for your honour’s long health and prosperity,