# Rhamon/Chapter 17

All too soon the day arrived for Rhamon to start home again. He went back to Rawal Pindi with his uncle, and there he was put in the care of a gang of workmen who were being sent up into the mountains to repair the roads. In one place a bridge had been washed away by the heavy rains. In another, mud and rocks had fallen down onto the roads from the high cliffs overhead. There were nearly a hundred men ​in the gang and they traveled in heavy covered carts pulled by sleepy-looking oxen. The lumbering animals traveled slowly and rested often, for the roads were steep.
At night the oxen were unhitched and lay down beside the carts. Then Rhamon liked to help the men take the sweet-smelling hay from the lower parts of the wagons and feed the animals. After they were fed, fires were built all along the road and the men cooked their evening meal.
Rhamon ate with them and listened to their talk. When his eyes grew heavy he crept under his covers in the top part of one of the wagons. Then he drifted off to sleep hearing the friendly crackle of the fires, the low voices of the men and the soft breathing of the oxen.
After seven days of travel like this the workmen reached the spot where the bridge was broken. Here the big mail-truck had been stopped on its way down. And here Rhamon said good-by to the workmen who had become ​his friends. They had brought the mail up this far with them, and Rhamon was to go on the rest of the way with the mail truck which would turn back now to Srinagar.
When he finally reached Srinagar and jumped down from the mail truck he saw the tall, white-robed figure of his father, waiting to meet him. Subro picked Rhamon up off his feet and gave him a great hug, then set him down again, saying over and over again, "Allah be praised! Allah be praised!"
Just as they stepped into Subro's shikara to paddle home, the Chief of Police rushed up, the end of his great turban flying inthe breeze. He slapped Rhamon on the back, then rubbed his big nose and twirled his black moustache. "Now you will surely be a Chief of Police!" he shouted, "and not a thief shall escape you!"
Then as the boat pulled away Rhamon heard him begin to laugh—that hearty laugh which he was sure always started away down in the the tips of his uncle's red leather slippers.
​When Rhamon climbed out on the deck of his own houseboat his mother put her arm around him. For a long time she didn't say anything. Wasn't she glad to see him? Under her long black lashes he couldn't tell whether she was laughing or crying. But that night when she cooked supper and he sat on the little rug in the corner listening to her singing, he thought she sounded happier than ever before.
After they had all eaten their evening meal Rhamon told Subro and his mother of the many wonderful sights he had seen in the big city: the snorting steam train, the great Mosque where he had said his prayers, the busy Bazaar with its hundreds of shops, the strange men who charmed the poison snakes, and his trip up the mountains with the gang of workmen.
Before he went to sleep he tucked his beautiful American penknife under his pillow. After all it was good to be home again on his houseboat—to see the stars from his window and the lights of the little Temple on the hill.
​As the days passed, Rhamon grew and learned to do all the things that the men could do. He helped his father with the houseboats. He learned to work in the market gardens, to gather driftwood in the river, to swim, to fish, and to hunt.
Some day Rhamon will be a man. Then he will have a long black beard. He will wear rustling white garments and smoke a big water pipe. Perhaps he will be the Rajah's head boatman, perhaps he will be a Chief of Police. And perhaps he will own fine houseboats on the river like his father.