He wondered, why hasn’t the master come yet? He too should come and see how skilled these villagers are at this work. His friends should see it as well. How could he call the master? He was searching for an opportunity, and as soon as he found a moment, he slipped away and came here. But upon seeing the scene before him, he stood stunned. Everyone was silent, trembling, their anxious eyes fixed on Khan, who was pulling Malti towards himself. Hori’s simple mind quickly grasped the situation. At that very moment, Raisahib called out—“Hori, run and fetch the policemen, quickly!”

Hori had just turned to go when Khan leveled his gun at him and barked, “Where are you going, you swine? I’ll shoot you!”

Hori was a rustic man. The sight of a red turban would make his heart leap into his throat, but he would not hesitate to take up a stick and charge at a rampaging bull. He was no coward; he knew both how to kill and how to die. But before the tricks of the police, he was powerless—who wants to be dragged about in chains, where would he get the money for bribes, upon whom would he leave his wife and children? But when the master calls out, then what is there to fear? Then he could leap even into the jaws of death.

He lunged forward, grabbed Khan by the waist, and tripped him so hard that Khan fell flat on his back, cursing in Pashto. Hori climbed onto his chest and, grabbing his beard, gave it a mighty yank. The beard came away in his hand. Khan immediately tore off his cap and, with a forceful shove, stood up. Ah! It was Mr. Mehta. The very same.

The people surrounded Mehta from all sides. Some patted him on the back, but on Mr. Mehta’s face there was neither a smile nor pride. He stood silently, as if nothing had happened.

Malti said with feigned anger, “Where did you learn this trickery? My heart is still pounding.”

Mehta replied with a smile, “I was merely testing the bravery of these good men. If I have been impertinent, please forgive me.”

When this performance ended, the Dhanur-Yajna in the theater had also concluded, and preparations for a social farce were underway. But these gentlemen had little interest in that. Only Mr. Mehta went to watch and stayed from beginning to end. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. From time to time he clapped and, urging the actors with “Say it again, say it again,” encouraged them further. In this farce, Raisahib had caricatured a litigious rural zamindar. It was called a farce, but it was filled with pathos. The protagonist’s constant references to legal statutes, filing a lawsuit against his wife simply because she was a little late in preparing his meal, the antics of the lawyers, the cunning and tricks of the village witnesses—how they were quick to agree to testify, but when it