Kiyi rolled over
on the edge of Sadler's yellow robe, curled up, and shut his eyes,
and went to sleep. He had no clothes but a green loin cloth. His hair
was done up in a topknot. Then I looked at Sadler, and then at Kiyi,
and then I thought he was the littlest and saddest thing in Asia.
When I was about ready to sail, I took the Shway Dagohn road again,
with Stevey Todd, thinking Sadler might have messages to send. It was
a windy afternoon. The hot dust was blowing in the road. The yellow
old man sat inside the gate alone. There were no children under the
trees. He came out of his dream, and motioned to stop us, and mumbled
something about "Tha-Thana-Peing," which was the Kid's title in that
neighbourhood. Whether it meant "His Solemn High Mightiness," or
meant "The Man That Pays the Bills," I didn't know. "No go, no go,"
mumbles the yellow old man.
"Ain't you keeping school to-day?" I says.
"Dead," mumbles the yellow old man.
"Who? Not Sadler! No. Tha-Thana!"
"Kishhatriya," he mumbles, "Kiyi," and he fell back into his
absent-mindedness. So we went past him to the little temple behind
the gilded cone. Most of the monks were sitting around it on the grass,
and Irish, with his hair remarkable wild, among them, and against a
pillar sat Sadler, bent over Kiyi's body that was on his knees.
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