563296589345

(Signed) A FRIEND.
The letter was written in the shaky round hand of the bazaar letter-writer, which resembled a
copybook exercise written by a drunkard. The letter-writer, however, would never have risen to such
a word as ‘eschew’. The letter must have been dictated by a clerk, and no doubt it came ultimately
from U Po Kyin. From ‘the crocodile’, Flory reflected.
He did not like the tone of the letter. Under its appearance of servility it was obviously a covert
threat. ‘Drop the doctor or we will make it hot for you’, was what it said in effect. Not that that
mattered greatly; no Englishman ever feels himself in real danger from an Oriental.
Flory hesitated with the letter in his hands. There are two things one can do with an anonymous
letter. One can say nothing about it, or one can show it to the person whom it concerns. The obvious,
the decent course was to give the letter to Dr Veraswami and let him take what action he chose.
And yet–it was safer to keep out of this business altogether. It is so important (perhaps the most
important of all the Ten Precepts of the pukka sahib) not to entangle oneself in ‘native’ quarrels. With
Indians there must be no loyalty, no real friendship. Affection, even love–yes. Englishmen do often
love Indians–native officers, forest rangers, hunters, clerks, servants. Sepoys will weep like children
when their colonel retires. Even intimacy is allowable, at the right moments. But alliance,
partisanship, never! Even to know the rights and wrongs of a ‘native’ quarrel is a loss of prestige.
If he published the letter there would be a row and an official inquiry, and, in effect, he would have
thrown in his lot with the doctor against U Po Kyin. U Po Kyin did not matter, but there were the
Europeans; if he, Flory, were too conspicuously the doctor’s partisan, there might be hell to pay.
Much better to pretend that the letter had never reached him. The doctor was a good fellow, but as to
championing him against the full fury of pukka sahibdom–ah, no, no! What shall it profit a man if he
save his own soul and lose the whole world? Flory began to tear the letter across. The danger of
making it public was very slight, very nebulous. But one must beware of nebulous dangers in India.
Prestige, the breath of life, is itself nebulous. He carefully tore the letter into small pieces and threw
them over the gate.
At this moment there was a terrified scream, quite different from the voices of Ko S’la’s wives.
The mali lowered his mamootie and gaped in the direction of the sound, and Ko S’la, who had also
heard it, came running bareheaded from the servants’ quarters, while Flo sprang to her feet and
yapped sharply. The scream was repeated. It came from the jungle behind the house, and it was an
English voice, a woman’s, crying out in terror.
There was no way out of the compound by the back. Flory scrambled over the gate and came down
with his knee bleeding from a splinter. He ran round the compound fence and into the jungle, Flo
following. Just behind the house, beyond the first fringe of bushes, there was a small hollow, which,
as there was a pool of stagnant water in it, was frequented by buffaloes from Nyaunglebin. Flory
pushed his way through the bushes. In the hollow an English girl, chalk-faced, was cowering against a
bush, while a huge buffalo menaced her with its crescent-shaped horns. A hairy calf, no doubt the
cause of the trouble, stood behind. Another buffalo, neck-deep in the slime of the pool, looked on
with mild prehistoric face, wondering what was the matter.