In either case he would begin to lie, through fear or vanity. He was
safest in my own hands.
"They are very funny fools, your English," said a voice at my
elbow, and turning round I recognized a casual acquaintance, a
young Bengali law student, called Grish Chunder, whose father
had sent him to England to become civilized. The old man was a
retired native official, and on an income of five pounds a month
contrived to allow his son two hundred pounds a year, and the run
of his teeth in a city where he could pretend to be the cadet of a
royal house, and tell stories of the brutal Indian bureaucrats who
ground the faces of the poor.
Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with
scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves.
But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian
Government paid for his university education, and he contributed
cheap sedition to _Sachi Durpan_, and intrigued with the wives of his
schoolmates.
"That is very funny and very foolish," he said, nodding at the
poster.
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