prem singh had company. when i went in the gathering dusk to feed the cow i noticed, instead of the usual solitary figure crouched above the little camp fire in the open, two lean forms silhouetted against the dancing flames, while a flow of guttural conversation that broke occasionally into seemingly excited treble argument mingled with the fragrant smoke from burning greasewood roots.

“he probably has a letter from india,” i told the lady of the castle, when i went back into the little stone house, “and has rung in a chap from the gang below to read it to him.”

“from his brother, probably,” said the lady. “he’ll be all excited over it. you’ll have to do the milking.”

her surmise as to the letter was correct, though i didn’t have to do the milking.

“letter come china country! my brother!” prem singh announced exultantly, when he came for the milk pail. “pretty good!” he ducked his head sideways in a delighted nod. “i go milk now.”

we had known of this brother ever since the hindu had become our devoted and isolated adherent. he was prem singh’s family, the only relative he had in the world.

“my father, mammy, been die,” he had explained to me. “both. my father, my mammy, p. 217two my sister, my little brother: all one time die. too much sick. all my uncle, my auntie, everybody die. too many people. just me, my big brother, live. thass all.” from which we gathered that a cholera epidemic had left the two boys orphans: prem singh, now our vassal, and kala singh, half a dozen years older, at present a british policeman at shanghai.

it was a poor life, this brother’s, but highly treasured by the younger brother, who, curiously enough, proved to be the stable member of the family. kala singh had left a bad record behind him in india, including a year’s jail sentence for knifing a co-conspirator in a bank robbery.

“my brother pretty much been marry,” prem singh told me one time, his face clouding over. “one time twelve hundred, one time fifteen hundred, dollar—my country rupee. all go.” he snapped his fingers to illustrate the disappearance of the marriage money into thin air. “too much drink. too much gambler.”

evidence that the black sheep had never mended his ways was furnished abundantly in the repeated requests that came for money, which prem singh never refused.

“mester,” he would usually ask me on the day succeeding the arrival of a letter from “china country,” “you two hundred dollar today bank take off, mice.” i had never been able to teach him the use of the possessive “mine”; it was invariably mice. “i send money china country. my brother.” once or twice i remonstrated with him about this, to no purpose. after all, it was his own money: the two dollars a day which, with practically no outgo, added up month by month in the p. 218bank. a letter from india, which he told me came from one of his brother’s deserted wives, proved equally futile, though troubling him for several days. its only ultimate result was to prejudice his young mind still further against womankind and the institution of marriage.

“me? not any been marry!” he assured me, his eyes flashing. “never! all time too much trouble! no good.”

yet he was engaged, one of those betrothals arranged in infancy by hindu parents, binding till death. it hung over prem singh like a sword of damocles, exiling him forever from his native land.

“this country pretty good,” he told me often. “girl wait all time my country. twenty year old now, i guess, maybe. i stay america! pretty good. not any go back!” he shook his head emphatically. “maybe some time my brother come this country. thass good!” his eyes gleamed at the pleasant vision.

it was this dream of a reunion with his beloved black sheep of a brother in the great and good land of america, far from the cloudy danger of marriage that overhung all india, that more than any other illumined his long days and lonely evenings on the california mesa. he kept aloof from the other hindus, from the large camps where they congregated, twenty and thirty together, for the clearing work that in time was to transform mesa into orchard land. he preferred to remain alone, apart, as my man.

“you pretty good man, mester,” he told me. “i all time stay here, please. i your man. my life!” then he smiled. “maybe some time my brother come; then two your men! both. thass pretty good!”

p. 219and now the dream seemed likely to materialize. when he returned with the full milk pail, prem singh had a question to ask. he fidgeted awkwardly about it, remaining in the kitchen an unconscionable length of time, resting one foot and then the other. it came out at last with a rush.

“mester, how much you think cost ticket, shanghai this country?”

“i don’t know, prem singh. i’ll find out in los angeles, if you want. steerage?”

“no, sair!” he was indignant. “not any! maybe my brother come this country. second class, sure. thass pretty good.”

i learned the amount, and it went forward on the next boat by money order to kala singh, care sikh temple, shanghai. then followed for prem singh a protracted period of pleasant anticipation that ended dismally two months later when another letter arrived from china country, announcing that the money was gone.

“too much gambler, my brother,” prem singh confided to me sadly. “i guess ticket more better.”

it was a good idea; and the next registered letter carried no additional money order, but instead a one-way ticket, second class, from shanghai.

this was efficacious; and when, six weeks later, another letter arrived from shanghai, prem singh came to the house in a tremble of excitement.

“mester, you know salina cruz? this country? canada? i guess not. meeseeco? i guess maybe! my brother come salina cruz. english read.” he always used the word “read” indiscriminately for read or write, reading or writing.

inclosed with the sheet covered with indian script was a small slip bearing a message in p. 220english. “arrive salina cruz november 29,” it read. “send money.”

“i guess my brother read maybe, himself,” announced prem singh, scanning it closely. “pretty smart man, my brother. english pretty good speak. my country read easy, english read little. me not any. not smart, me.” then he shook his head. “i guess this not any my brother read.”

i guessed not either. it was a very fair handwriting indeed.

“you think all right send money salina cruz, mester?”

i did not think so, emphatically not. prem singh was in doubt. his natural caution warned him against such a move. on the other hand his affection for his brother, his instinctive generosity, his desire to hasten in any way possible his brother’s approach to the land of promise, urged him on. in the end he decided to wait for a more definite request.

it was not long in coming, arriving in the form of a telegram almost on the heels of the letter. “send seventy dollars, kala singh, care british consul, salina cruz, mexico,” the message ran. evidently this brother was no fool.

prem singh immediately dispatched a hundred by registered mail, bemoaning only the fact that the telegraph company would not transmit money to that point.

followed another period of waiting—anxious this time, for why should there be so much delay?—and then the end.

it is no easy matter for hindus to enter this country, though there is as yet no definite hindu exclusion act. the immigration laws already in p. 221existence can be so construed, in accordance with the desires of a certain rabid element of whites on the pacific coast, that it is almost impossible for a turbaned citizen of great britain to enter the united states. for the most part those that now drift into this country of ours land in canada or mexico, and straggle across the international line, running the gauntlet to escape detection.

this kala singh attempted. it was at christmas time, we learned through a hindu who had made the voyage from shanghai with him. landed at salina cruz, they had taken boat again for ensenada; thence, working overland, had come to the american border in the vicinity of yuma. the pair had been detected by the border patrol, pursued, captured, and locked up for the night in a small jail. participating, before daylight, with men held for greater offenses, in a general jail break, they had been ordered to halt, and fired upon in the darkness. kala singh had been found by a chance bullet, and killed instantly.

“isn’t there anything we can do?” the lady of the castle asked me when i told her about it. “isn’t there anything?”

i went out to where prem singh crouched alone over his little fire of greasewood roots under the great vault of heaven.

“hello, mester!” he called listlessly, as i approached awkwardly.

“hello, prem singh!” i answered.

there was a pause. “i make my country bread,” he announced at length, clearing his throat, obviously manufacturing conversation in order to put me at my ease; and then, after a little: “i think maybe go back my country pretty soon.”

p. 222“go back to india, prem singh?” i was genuinely surprised.

he nodded affirmation. “next month, maybe, i go,” he said wearily. “america not very good. my country more better. maybe bime-by been marry.”

john amid.