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up to St John’s to make sure that his fellow lay-preacher and
    assistant warden, Mr Thomas, the Eurasian manager of the New Electric Cinema, had kept
    things in order that he had met the boy again, that he found Joseph again, not asleep in the
    porch but on his knees once more, working on his sixth grave with an old pair of clippers
    which Mr Thomas had lent him.
    By now Mr Bhoolabhoy had learnt a little more about Joseph. The only sisters he knew of
    in Ranpur were those who ran the Samaritan Hospital, which was a nuthouse, and, calling
    there one day with a message from Mr Ambedkar who was high church enough to maintain
    an ecumenical relationship with Rome, he inquired of a boy called Joseph, fearing that he
    might be an escaped inmate. The sisters knew only that he had turned up one day and for a
    week or two in return for a meal and a bed made himself useful in the patch of garden and
    by cutting and arranging the flowers for the Reverend Mother’s desk. Then he had suddenly
    not been there. They learned nothing about his history which he himself seemed to have
    forgotten or decided was irrelevant. They had given him some new clothing as well as bed
    and board and a postcard of the Sacred Heart, the picture the Reverend Mother had once
    found him contemplating in her study.
    Simple but harmless, honest and willing, was how they had summed him up; and if Mr
    Bhoolabhoy ever saw him again he must be sure to tell him that the sisters remembered him
    and would welcome him back should he need shelter for a week or so. “A wandering child
    of God, with a passion for things that grow,” the Reverend Mother said as she and Mr
    Bhoolabhoy parted.
    Ibrahim thought Joseph sounded more ideal than ever.
    “Memsahib will want to know, what of pay?”
    Mr Bhoolabhoy shrugged. He had never offered Joseph money. Mr Thomas had given him
    a few paise for running errands. Miss Williams had given him a rupee or two for painting the
    cane furniture in her bungalow. Food, shelter, convivial occupation—these were what
    interested Joseph and he seemed prepared to take them where he found them. He should
    not cost Mrs Smalley much, Mr Bhoolabhoy declared, and he was glad enough for the boy to
    have an opportunity, however temporary, and would be happy to pretend to Tusker Sahib
    that the boy was a member of the hotel staff, if that was what Memsahib wanted.
    “What about Madam?” Ibrahim inquired, tilting his head in the direction of the Hotel and
    its Owner.

    “Leave Madam to me,” Mr Bhoolabhoy replied, which struck Ibrahim as very funny. If he
    mentioned the business to Mrs Bhoolabhoy, though, perhaps she would find that funny—the
    thought of Tusker Sahib thinking she’d backed down when all the time he was paying for the
    mali himself. The idea of Mrs Bhoolabhoy being amused by anything wasn’t easy to entertain
    but if anything could amuse her this might.
    “I will speak to Memsahib right away then, Manager Sahib.”
    “Don’t you want to see the boy first? He’s in the churchyard. I’ll take you up.”
    “Memsahib first, boy second. There is no need for Manager-Sahib to trouble himself
    further, except over tools. If Memsahib likes the sound of the boy I will go to the church
    and speak to him.”
    Memsahib did like the sound of the boy but didn’t want to see him either. She said she
    relied on Ibrahim’s and Mr Bhoolabhoy’s judgment.
    “The question is, how much will he want?”
    “Memsahib will say the amount she can afford?”
    “The least amount he would work for. What do you think that might be?”
    He named a figure.
    “But Ibrahim, that is almost as much as the first boy you mentioned would probably want.
    You spoke of another who wasn’t so bright but was strong and willing and would be
    cheaper. How much cheaper would he be than this third boy you and Mr Bhoolabhoy
    recommend?”
    It was unwise to confuse an old lady.
    “This is the cheaper boy. Only I did not know when I first mentioned him that