the boutique-keepers from Kamburupitiya had taken their dues. And he was not an easy man to argue with: if he wanted a loan he would, unheeding of any excuse or refusal, hang about the headman's door for a whole day. But if it were a case of repayment, he would sit staring over his creditor's head, listening, without a sign or a word, to the quiet persuasive arguments of the headman.

The headman's dislike became more distinct after the birth of Punchi Menika and Hinnihami. Silindu had resented his interference between him and his wife, and when Dingihami died bitter words had passed between them. Though Silindu soon forgot them, Babehami did not. For years Silindu did not realise what was taking place, but he vaguely felt that life was becoming harder for him. A month after Dingihami's death his store of grain was exhausted, and it became necessary for him to begin his yearly borrowings. Accordingly, he took his gun and went in the evening to the nearest water-hole to wait for deer. The first night he was unsuccessful: no deer came to drink; but on the second he shot a doe. He skinned the deer, cut it up, and carried the meat to his hut. He then carefully chose the best piece of meat, and took it with him to Babehami's house. The headman was

squatting in his doorway chewing betel. His little eyes twinkled when he saw Silindu with the meat.

'Ralahami,'' said Silindu, stopping just outside the door, 'yesterday I was in the jungle collecting domba fruit-what else is there to eat?-when I smelt a smell of something dead some fathoms away. I searched about, and soon I came upon the carcase of a doe killed by a leopard-the marks of his claws were under the neck, and the belly was eaten.

The meat I have brought to my house. This piece is for you.'

The headman took the meat in silence, and hung it up in the house.

He fetched a chew
The two

Silindu.

of betel and gave it to men then squatted down, one on each side of the door. For a long time neither spoke : their chewing was only interrupted every now and then by the ejection of a jet of red saliva. At last Babehami broke the silence:

'Four days ago I was in Kamburupitiya— I was called to the kachcheri there. They asked me two fanams2 in the bazaar for a cocoanut.'

'Aiyo! I have not seen a coconut for two years.'

A respectful form of address.

2 A fanam: six cents, one penny.

'Two fanams! And last year at this time they were but one fanam each. In the bazaar I met the Korala Mahatmaya. The Korala Mahatmaya is a hard man: he said to me, "Arachchi, there are guns in your village for which no permit has been given by the Agent Hamadoru." I said to him, "Ralahami, if there be, the fault is not mine." Then he said, "The order has come from the Agent Hamadoru to the Disa Mahatmaya1 that if one gun be found without permit in a headman's village there will be trouble both for the Arachchi and the Korala." Now the Disa Mahatmaya is a good man, but the Korala is hard; and they say in Kamburupitiya that the Agent Hamadoru is very hard and strict, and goes round the villages searching for guns for which no permits have been given. They say, too, that he will come this way next month.'

There was a short silence, and then Babehami continued:

'It is five months, Silindu, since I told you to take a permit for your gun, and you have not done so yet. The time to pay three

1 Disa Mahatmaya is the title used by villagers in referring to chief headmen or Ratemahatmayas. Koralas are subordinate headmen of korales under the Ratemahatmayas. Each Korala again has under him several Arachchis, who are headmen of single villages.

shillings has gone by, and you will now have to pay four. The Korala is a hard man, and the Agent Hamadoru will come next month.'

Silindu salaamed.

'Ralahami, I am a poor man.

How can

I pay four shillings or even three? There is not a fanam in the house.

There was a

You are my

permit taken two years ago. father and my mother. I will hide the gun in a place that only I know of, and if it be taken or question be made, is it not easy to say that the stock was broken, and it was not considered necessary to take a permit for a broken gun?'

But the argument, which before had been successful with Babehami, now seemed to have lost its strength.

'A permit is required. It is the order of Government. I have told you the Korala is a hard man, and he is angry with me because I brought him but two cocoanuts as a present, whereas other Arachchis bring him an amunam of paddy. For I, too, am a poor man.'

Silindu sat in helpless silence. The hopelessness of raising two rupees to pay for a gun licence for the moment drove out of his mind the object of his coming to Babehami's house. All that he felt was the misery

of a new misfortune, and, as was his nature, he sat dumb under it. At last, however, the pressing need of the moment again recurred to him, and he started in the tortuous way, habitual to villagers, to approach the subject.

'Ralahami, is there any objection to my clearing Nugagahahena next chena season?' 'There are three months before the chena season. Why think of that now?'

'When the belly is empty, the mouth talks of rice. Last year my chena crop was bad. There was but little rain, and the elephants broke in and destroyed much kurakkan. The Lord Buddha himself would be powerless against the elephants.'

Silindu got up as if to go. He took a step towards the stile which led into the compound, and then turned back as if he had just remembered something, and began in a soft, wheedling voice:

'Ralahami, there is nothing to eat in the house. There is Karlinahami to feed too. If you could but lend me ten kurunies! I would repay it twofold at the reaping of Nugagahahena.'

Babehami chewed for some minutes, and then spat with great deliberation.

'I have no grain to lend now, Silindu.'
'Ralahami, it is only ten kurunies I am