Māthura. Oh, sir, a shampooer owes me ten gold-pieces, and he got away from us. Hold him, hold him! Stop, stop! I see you from here.
Gambler. You may run to hell, if they'll take you in;
With Indra, the god, you may stay:
For there's never a god can save your skin,
While Māthura wants his pay. 3
Māthura. Oh, whither flee you, nimble rambler,
You that cheat an honest gambler?
You that shake with fear and shiver,
All a-tremble, all a-quiver;
You that cannot trip enough,
On the level ground and rough;
You that stain your social station,
Family, and reputation! 4
Gambler. [Examining the footprints.] Here he goes. And here the tracks are lost.
Māthura. [Gazes at the footprints. Reflectively.] Look! The feet are turned around. And the temple hasn't any image. [After a moment's thought.] That rogue of a shampooer has gone into the temple with his feet turned around.
Gambler. Let's follow him.
Māthura. All right. [They enter the temple and take a good look, then make signs to each other.]
Gambler. What! a wooden image?
Māthura. Of course not. It's stone. [He shakes it with all his might, then makes signs.] What do we care? Come, let's have a game. [He starts to gamble as hard as he can.]
Shampooer. [Trying with all his might to repress the gambling fever. Aside.] Oh, oh!
Oh, the rattle of dice is a charming thing,
