Publisher's Synopsis
A Blood-red sun rested its huge disk upon a low mud wall that crested a rise to westward, and flattened at the bottom from its own weight apparently. A dozen dried-out false-acacia-trees shivered as the faintest puff in all the world of stifling wind moved through them; and a hundred thousand tiny squirrels kept up their aimless scampering in search of food that was not there. A coppersmith was about the only living thing that seemed to care whether the sun went down or not. He seemed in a hurry to get a job done, and his reiterated "Bong-bong-bong!"-that had never ceased since sunrise, and had driven nearly mad the few humans who were there to hear it-quickened and grew louder. At last Brown came out of a square mud house, to see about the sunset. He was nobody but plain Bill Brown-or Sergeant William Brown, to give him his full name and entitlements-and the price of him was two rupees per day.
