Muddy Gun

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Captain Booter of the British Colonial Service sat at ease behind his desk, his pale blue eyes filled with an expression of doubt. Before him, in a position of rigid attention, stood Jayasata, owner and operator of a rickshaw in the port city of Colombo, Ceylon. In deference to the captain he had loosened the tucked up folds of his plaid sarong so that it hung shabbily to his ankles. He held his head high, his thin bony chest stuck out, the stringy arms that looked as though they were woven of leather hung rigidly at his sides.

“Needless to say, you are a man of much honor and discretion, Jayasata.” Captain Booter was proud of his command of Singhalese, but less confident of his ability to read the minds of these unpredictable natives.

“For one year now Booter Master has used my conveyance. Never has he been charged too much. Even through the heavy rains I have waited for him.” The heavy bones of Jayasata’s cheeks and jaw showed that some of the wild Vedda blood of a hill village flowed in his veins.

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