The day went by. The doctor said in a troubled voice that the boy's condition was very critical. Phatik began to cry out: "By the mark!—three fathoms. By the mark—four fathoms. By the mark." He had heard the sailor on the riversteamer calling out the mark on the plumb-line. Now he was himself plumbing an unfathomable sea.
Later in the day Phatik's mother burst into the room like a whirlwind, and began to toss from side to side and moan and cry in a loud voice. Bishamber tried to calm her agitation, but she flung herself on the bed, and cried: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik stopped his restless movements for a moment. His hands ceased beating up and down. He said: "Eh?"
The mother cried again: "Phatik, my darling, my darling."
Phatik very slowly turned his head and, without seeing anybody, said: "Mother, the holidays have come."
