MASTERS AND MEN By RANJEE G. SHAHAN' A FEW days after

my arrival on my estate, I set out on a shooting expedition with Karim, reputed to be the best huntsman for a hundred miles round. My companion was no servant of mine, or, for that matter, of anyone else. The very thought would have been scorned by him. He just picked up any job that took his fancy. As he was never for long in one location, I felt I was lucky in procuring him.

My bailiff, however, did not think so. He was a kind of Methuselah, alert, vivacious, always talking about the grandeur of my great-grandfather. Not a sentence would he speak without dragging in my poor respected . ancestor. Sure enough, he interposed on this occasion, saying : " My sainted Master—peace be on his ashes !- would never have dreamed of going out with such a fellow."

" But," broke in Karim good-humouredly, " I have heard it said that the old Dewan Sahib had no taste for hunting."

" How can you say that ? " cried the old bailiff. " Every year he used to mount his horse, have a big . gathering of hounds and huntsmen, and go out shooting in the grounds— " " In the yard, Master," whispered Karim in my ear. " I mean no disrespect, but he had a wonderful way of knocking over the fowls of the farmyard."

I roared with laughter.

" Those were days ! " sighed the bailiff, leaving hastily.

Karim and I, not to waste further time,. plunged through the rice fields and sugar plantations across which our course lay. The tracks here were narrow and slippery, often only dried beds of torrents. The bushes that served to separate the different plots of ground were laden with dew and, as we brushed past, sprinkled us with a gummy exudation. It took us more than half an hour to cover the short distance from my homestead to the underwood.

As though to compensate me for the troublesome march, Karim discovered such a quantity and variety of birds that I was soon busy loading and reloading my gun. Never before had I secured so much game as on this occasion. It was a veritable hunter's paradise to which he had brought me. The fellow seemed to have -a hard steely eye that saw through everything, detecting and distinguishing birds where my own gaze beheld nothing but shifting shadows. He pointed out little hidden pools and water-courses that simply swarmed with ducks and water-fowl. We shot until we were tired of the monotonous slaughter. We looked round for a place where we could rest awhile.

Autumn was drawing to a close, and the air had a sharp wintry nip in it. A subtle pungent odour, as of aromatic herbs, pervaded all things, and made breathing a luxury. The sun was setting fast as we made our way through the wood.s- High up in the sky, silhouetted against the infinite blue, hovered a gold-crested eagle, and a little lower floated innumerable kites and hawks. Sometimes a brace of black 'partridges, startled by our footsteps, went whirring noisily into the copses, or some grey-white pigeons, heavy and bloated, lingered to gaze at us with their greedy stupid eyes, or a tia-tin (chatterbox) clamoured metallically from some unseen thicket, or a flock of excited starlings swept over our heads. We came at last into the open. Around us extended the vast dun-coloured fields, silent, deep and plunged, as it were, in meditation. The human habitations were few, solitary and scattered.

We sat down. Before us lay the plain, bare and silent, bathed in the soft liquid light of sunset ; the clear sky sparkled with countless stars ; and at intervals the hyaena uttered his mournful cry, which was taken up from all points of the horizon in a crescendo of lamentation.

The spectacle, so calm and grand, affected me ; the savage cries echoed musically on my ear. Karim, too, appeared to be touched. He sat with his chin cupped in his hand, gazing into the gathering gloom, and swaying from side to side as though in unison to some unheard melody.

" Karim," I broke the silence, " why not settle down ? Why not take a permanent post ? I shall be glad to have you . . ."

" May be, I will," he said after a pause. " I may settle down. But I don't know yet. I will let you know in good time."

We again relapsed into silence.

Suddenly there was a sound of footsteps behind us : someone was coming in our direction. I looked round, and saw an aged peasant, dusty and unkempt, in tattered blue trousers, his shoes tied to his stick, ambling along. The man paused, scanned the horizon with bent back and shaded eyes, and, sighing deeply, continued his march.

" He, Ahmad ! " cried Karim, jumping to his feet, " whither so fast ? Good-day to you I " " It's you, Karim, is it ? " said the old man, advancing rapidly. " I thought I was forsaken by all."

" Why, what's the matter ? Aren't you all right ? Has—has Fatima run away with a lover, or what ? "

" I wish she had. 'Tis worse than that" " Is she—is she—unwell ? "

" No, it isn't that. I have not seen her for the last six months. I have been a ' guest of the Government.' " The old peasant laughed a little foolishly. " In my old age, too," he continued ; " didn't think such honour would come my way." He laughed again.

" So you have been to prison ? What for ? "

" What for ? " repeated the peasant. " Ask my new Master. He knows all about it."

" But you can speak, can't you ? What did they have you in for ? "

The man seemed to find it difficult to shape his thoughts into words. At last he murmured : " My new Master offered me Rahman's place—that's the bailiff's—in exchange for my daughter—" " And What did you reply ? " asked Karim sharply. The old man smiled feebly. " Of course I refused," he said with a show of pride. " But that didn't help me.

They had cooked up a charge against me and had me arrested. The Magistrate Sahib paid no heed to my protests, and gave me six months' penalty . . . so I went to gaol. . . . On coming out I learnt that my wife had disappeared, my cottage was pulled down, and Fatima had gone over to the young Master. . . ."

The peasant recounted this in a matter-of-fact manner, as though he were speaking of something that did not concern him ; but his eyes were wet and his lips were quivering.

" Well, what are you going to do about it ? " asked Karim solicitously.

" What can I do," wailed the old man, " but go back to my old place ? - There I was born, and where I must end."

" And how about your Master ? " asked Karim, with a sudden flash. " Have you nothing to say to him ? Will you allow him to prosper and die in peace ? " " He can't hurt me now," laughed the old man like a maniac. " Nothing can. Allah will deal with him in His own good time."

" So you are going to wait for Allah ? " cried Karim. " I shouldn't wait so long."

" What else can I do ? Fatima went to him of her own accord. They say she is very attached to him."

" Ah ! " murmured Karim, and was silent. It was as though someone had struck him with a bullet. " Pretty bad ! " he said at last, in a voice that I could hardly recognise.

" Bad l No !" returned the peasant brokenly. " I feel sort of choked," he continued, unbuttoning his torn faded cotton coat.

" If—if :you, happen' to see Fatima," began Karim, " will you kindly tell her that I shall most likely leave these parts for ever. .• . . May be this is the last time that I look upon you and all that I have known. . . . Curious, how a man can suddenly come to hate the very things that he has loved ! "

" What are you talking about ? " said the old man. ".I shall never see Fatima again—that is, even if I see her, I shall not know her."

" I see," uttered Karim, with a catch in his voice. " Never mind," he said after awhile ; " it does not matter." He threw himself on the ground and buried his face in the hay.

We were silent. Suddenly the hush was broken by the call of a koil—so sweet, yet so sad.

Soon after we rose to depart. Karim conducted me to my habitation, bade me farewell in a hollow whisper, and disappeared- in the enveloping night.

I never saw him again.