The Life of the River
feast day. The son was a blear-eyed little creature with
close-cropped hair and a skull-cap, a sort of spawn of the
river, born in a mud hovel on its banks, brought up in
the mud and water of its shores, with an amphibian
intelligence that would never rise above that slimy level.
His canning little eyes and those of his father fixed me with
anxious calculation while I debated the matter of the
rupees. They would row me across, said Salih, for nothing
till the sum was made up. " Wallah, Khatun, it is hard
if one's son has not something new for the Feast.'9 In a
moment of weakness I agreed.
Salih has never more been seen on our bit of the river.
He took away his boat but left his wife behind him. He
also gathered all the fish he could collect from various
friends, promised to sell them in the market, and added
the proceeds to his loot. We heard of him, for he had
moved only a mile or so upstream, but to all intents
and purposes it was as if he had removed himself into
space.
I tried to think better of him for three days. Then my
thoughts turned to the police. As everyone knew where
the old scamp was to be found, it seemed to me a fairly
simple matter. I asked advice of my new boatman,
Husein.
Husein hesitated. " Perhaps it would be as well if the
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