But the holidays would not come till October and there was a long time
still to wait.
One day Phatik lost his lesson book. Even with the help of books he had
found it very difficult indeed to prepare his lesson. Now it was
impossible. Day after day the teacher would cane him unmercifully. His
condition became so abjectly miserable that even his cousins were
ashamed to own him. They began to jeer and insult him more than the
other boys. He went to his aunt at last and told her that he had lost
his book.
His aunt pursed her lips in contempt and said: "You great clumsy,
country lout! How can I afford, with all my family, to buy you new books
five times a month?"
That night, on his way back from school, Phatik had a bad headache with
a fit of shivering. He felt he was going to have an attack of malarial
fever. His one great fear was that he would be a nuisance to his aunt.
The next morning Phatik was nowhere to be seen. All searches in the
neighbourhood proved futile. The rain had been pouring in torrents all
night, and those who went out in search of the boy got drenched through
to the skin. At last Bishamber asked help from the police.
At the end of the day a police van stopped at the door before the house.
It was still raining and the streets were all flooded. Two constables
brought out Phatik in their arms and placed him before Bishamber. He
was wet through from head to foot, muddy all over, his face and eyes
flushed red with fever and his limbs trembling. Bishamber carried him in
his arms and took him into the inner apartments. When his wife saw him
she exclaimed: "What a heap of trouble this boy has given us! Hadn't you
better send him home?"
Phatik heard her words and sobbed out loud: "Uncle, I was just going
home; but they dragged me back again."
The fever rose very high, and all that night the boy was delirious.
Bishamber brought in a doctor. Phatik opened his eyes, flushed with
fever, and looked up to the ceiling and said vacantly: "Uncle, have the
holidays come yet?"
Bishamber wiped the tears from his own eyes and took Phatik's lean and
burning hands in his own and sat by him through the night. The boy began
again to mutter. At last his voice became excited: "Mother!" he cried,
"don't beat me like that.... Mother! I _am_ telling the truth!"
The next day Phatik became conscious for a short time. He turned his
eyes about the room, as if expecting some one to come. At last, with an
air of disappointment, his head sank back on the pillow. He turned his
face to the wall with a deep sigh.
Bishamber knew his thoughts and bending down his head whispered:
"Phatik, I have sent for your mother."
The day went by. The doctor said in a troubled voice that the boy's
condition was very critical.
Phatik began to cry out: "By the mark--three fathoms. By the mark--four
fathoms. By the mark----." He had heard the sailor on the river-steamer
calling out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself plumbing an
unfathomable sea.
Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room, like a whirlwind,
and began to toss from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice.
Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed,
and cried: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceased
beating up and down. He said: "Eh?"