Then we waited.
Presently the man came, with bucket and rope.
"Draw water, that I may wash my hands," said I.
"Achha, sahib," and he strode to the well and lowered his pail by the
rope. The priest looked intently at him as he shook the rope to turn the
bucket over and let it fill; then he began to pull. The bucket seemed to
be caught. He jerked, and then bent his whole weight back, drawing the
rope across the edge of the brickwork. The thing was immovable. He
seemed astonished and looked down into the well, thinking the pail was
caught in a stone. I could not resist the temptation to go down and
inspect the thing. No. The bucket was full and lying in the middle of
the round sheet of water at the bottom of the well. The man tugged,
while the Brahmin never took his eyes, now bright and fiery, off him. I
went back to where they all stood. The thing had lasted five minutes.
Then the priest's lips moved silently.
Instantly the strain was released and the stout water-carrier fell
headlong backwards on the grass, his heels in the air, jerking the
bucket right over the edge of the well. He bounded to his feet and ran
up the grove, shouting "Bhut, Bhut," "devils, devils," at the top of his
voice. His obstinacy had lasted so long as the bucket would not move,
but then his terror got the better of him and he fled.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253