had somehow possessed
himself of a tom tom, and proved himself an excellent performer on that
weird instrument. While he tapped its sides, his fellow Maratha, in a
strange hard tuneless voice, chanted a song, repeating its single stanza
again and again without apparently wearying his hearers, and clapping his
hand to mark the time.

It was a song about a banya {merchant} with a beautiful young
daughter-in-law, whom he appointed to deal out the daily handful of flour
expected as alms by every beggar who passed his door. Her hands being
much smaller than his own, he pleased himself with the idea that, without
losing his reputation for charity, he would give away through her much
less grain than if he himself performed the charitable office. But it
turned out bad thrift, for so beautiful was she that she attracted to the
door not only the genuine beggars, but also many, both young and old, who
had disguised themselves in mendicant rags for the mere pleasure of
beholding her and getting from her a smile and a gentle word.

It was a popular song, and the warder himself was tempted to stay and
listen until, the hour for locking up being past, he at last recollected
his duty and bundled the prisoners into the shed.

"Sing inside if you must," he said, "but not too loud, lest the overseer
come with the bamboo."

Inside the shed, reclining on their charpoys, the men continued their
performance, changing their song, though not, as it seemed to Desmond,
the tune. He, however, was perhaps not sufficiently attentive to the
monotonous strains; for, as soon as the warder had left the yard, he had
unlocked his fetters and begun to work in the darkness. Poised on one of
the rafters, he held on with one hand to a joist, and with the other
plied a small saw, well greased with ghi. The sound of the slow careful
movements of the tool was completely drowned by the singing and the
hollow rat-a-pan of the tom tom. Beneath him stood the Babu, extending
his dhoti like an apron, and catching in it the falling shower of
sawdust.

Suddenly the figure on the rafter gave a low whistle. Through the window
he had seen the dim form of the sentry outside approach the space lighted
by the rays from the lantern, which he had laid down at a corner of the
shed. Before the soldier had time to lift it and throw a beam into the
shed (which he did as much from curiosity to see the untiring performers
as in the exercise of his duty) Desmond had swun