Most like, I shall see them carried out before me. I
don't think I shall ever outlive the Memsahib or Tsin-ling. Women last longer
than men at the Black-Smoke, and Tsin-ling has a deal of the old man's blood in
him, though he DOES smoke cheap stuff. The bazar-woman knew when she was going
two days before her time; and SHE died on a clean mat with a nicely wadded
pillow, and the old man hung up her pipe just above the Joss. He was always
fond of her, I fancy. But he took her bangles just the same.
I should like to die like the bazar-woman--on a clean, cool mat with a pipe of
good stuff between my lips. When I feel I'm going, I shall ask Tsin-ling for
them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a month, fresh and fresh, as long as he
pleases, and watch the black and red dragons have their last big fight
together; and then . . . .
Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters much to me--only I wished Tsin-ling
wouldn't put bran into the Black Smoke.
THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN.
"Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home little children
crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying."
--Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.
The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted.
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