It stood on the
mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for
me.
"Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially.
The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a polo-ball
to a khitmatgar?
"By Your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and desires
it to play with. I do not want it for myself."
No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with
polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the verandah; and there
followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the thud-
thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the little son had
been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to
see that polo-ball?
Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was aware
of a small figure in the dining-room--a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously
inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby stomach. It
wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of
the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son."
He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in his
discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway.
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