"What are you doing here?"

 The excusado was a cesspool with two planks across it on which a man could stand. He emptied the pail and went back across the yard to the row of cells. There were six: one by one he took the pails: once he had to stop and retch: splash, splash, to and fro across the yard. He came to the last cell. It wasn     't empty: a man lay back against the wall: the early sun just reached his feet. Flies buzzed around a mound of vomit on the floor. The eyes opened and watched the priest stooping over the pail: two fangs protruded. ...The priest moved quickly and splashed the floor. The half-caste said in that too—familiar nagging tone: "Wait a moment. You cant do that in here." He explained proudly: "I'm not a

 

prisoner. I'm a guest." The priest made a motion of apology (he was afraid to speak) and moved again. "Wait a moment," the half-caste commanded him again. "Come here."
   The priest stood stubbornly, half-turned away, near the door. "Come here," the half-caste said. "You're a prisoner, aren't you     ?—and I'm a guest—of the Governor. Do you want me to shout for a policeman? Then do as you're told: come here." It seemed as if God were deciding ... finally. He came, pail in hand, and stood beside the large flat naked foot, and the half-caste looked up at him from the shadow of the wall, asking him sharply and anxiously: "What are you doing here?"