Another day, although the table appeared clothed in
the proper manner, the spoons, which had probably found their way to the
bazar, perhaps to provide the very articles of which the feast was
composed, were absent, whether with or without leave is immaterial.
"Where are all the spoons?" cried the apparently enraged master. "Gone
washerman, sar!" was the answer. Roars of laughter succeeded, and a
teacup did duty for the soup-ladle. The probable consequence of this
unlucky exposure of the domestic economy of the host, namely, a sound
drubbing to the poor maty-boy, brings to my mind an anecdote which,
being in a story-telling vein, I cannot resist the temptation of
introducing. It was related to me, with great humour, by one of the
principals in the transaction, whose candour exceeded his fear of shame.
He had been in the habit of beating his servants, till one in particular
complained that he would have him before Sir Henry Gwillam, then chief
justice at Madras, who had done all in his power to suppress the
disgraceful practice. Having a considerable balance to settle with his
maty-boy on the score of punishment, but fearing the presence of
witnesses, the master called him one day into a bungalow at the bottom
of his garden, at some distance from the house. "Now," said he as he
shut the door and put the key into his pocket, "you'll complain to Sir
Henry Gwillam, will you? There is nobody near to bear witness to what
you may say, and, with the blessing of God, I'll give it you
well.
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