He had been
released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see that he had come
over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets. Charlie's poems
were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk about the galley.
Grish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute.
"I beg your pardon," Charlie said, uneasily; "I didn't know you had any one
with you."
"I am going," said Grish Chunder.
He drew me into the lobby as he departed.
"That is your man," he said, quickly. "I tell you he will never speak all you
wish. That is rot--bosh. But he would be most good to make to see things.
Suppose now we pretend that it was only play"--I had never seen Grish Chunder
so excited--"and pour the ink-pool into his hand. Eh, what do you think? I
tell you that he could see anything that a man could see. Let me get the ink
and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us very many things."
"He may be all you say, but I'm not going to trust him to your Gods and
devils."
"It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he
wakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before."
"That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You'd better go,
Grish Chunder.
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