him, equally satisfied with either decree. How
Indian shopkeepers live at all is always a puzzle to me. They hardly
ever seem to do anything but _moon_.

On and on, in disorderly but perfectly good-natured streams, the people
are passing up to the temple, or coming down from worship there. All who
come down have their foreheads smeared with white ashes. Even here there
are goats; they are being pulled, poor reluctant beasts, right to the
steps of the shrine, there to be dedicated to the god within. Then they
will be dragged, still reluctant, round the temple walls outside, then
decapitated.

I watch a baby tug a goat by a rope tied round its neck. The goat has
horns, and I expect every moment to see the baby gored. But it never
seems to enter into the goat's head to do anything so aggressive. It
tugs, however, and the baby tugs, till a grown-up comes to the baby's
assistance, and all three struggle up to the shrine.

We are standing now in an empty stall, just a little out of the crush.
Next door is an assortment of small Tamil booklets in marvellous
colours, orange and green predominating. There is an empty barrel rolled
into the corner, and we sit down on it, and begin to read from our Book.
This causes a diversion in the flow of the stream, and we get another
chance.

But it grows hotter and hotter, and we get so thirsty, and long for a
drink of cocoanut water. It is always safe to drink that. No cocoanuts
are available, though, and we have no money. Then a man selling native
butter-milk comes working his way in and out of the press, and we become
conscious that of all things in the world the thing we yearn for most is
a drink of butter-milk. The man stops in front of our stall, pours out a
cupful of that precious liquid, and seeing the thirst in our eyes, I
suppose, beseeches us to drink. We explain our penniless plight. "Buy
our books, and we'll buy your butter-milk," but he does not want our
books. Then we wish we had not squandered our farthings on those
impossible cakes. The butter-milk man proposes he should trust us for
the money; he is sure to come across us again. He is a kind-hearted man;
but debt is a sin; it is not likely we shall see him again. The
butter-milk man considers. He is poor, but we are thirsty. To give
drink to the thirsty is an act of merit. Acts of merit come in useful,
both in this world and the next. He pours out a cupful of butter-milk
(he had poured the first one back when we showe