[He takes a look.] Well, if this isn't that swindler Māthura. And here is the poor saintly shampooer; a saint to be sure,
Who does not hang with bended head
Rigid till set of sun,
Who does not rub his back with sand
Till boils begin to run,
Whose shins dogs may not browse upon,
As they pass him in their rambling.[1]
Why should this tall and dainty man
Be so in love with gambling? 12
Well, I must pacify Māthura. [He approaches.] How do you do, Māthura? [Māthura returns the greeting.]
Darduraka. What does this mean?
Māthura. He owes me ten gold-pieces.
Darduraka. A mere bagatelle!
Māthura. [Pulling the rolled-up cloak from under Darduraka's arm.] Look, gentlemen, look! The man in the ragged cloak calls ten gold-pieces a mere bagatelle.
Darduraka. My good fool, don't I risk ten gold-pieces on a cast of the dice? Suppose a man has money—is that any reason why he should put it in his bosom and show it? But you,
You'll lose your caste, you'll lose your soul,
For ten gold-pieces that he stole,
To kill a man that's sound and whole,
With five good senses in him. 13
Māthura. Ten gold-pieces may be a mere bagatelle to you, sir. To me they are a fortune.
Darduraka. Well then, listen to me. Just give him ten more, and let him go to gambling again.
Māthura. And what then?
Darduraka. If he wins, he will pay you.
- ↑ See note on page 33.
