Also he was the only boy in Rubbulgurh who cared to climb a tree that had no fruit on it, or would venture beyond the lower branches even for mangoes or tamarinds.

And one day when he found a weaver-bird's nest in a bush with three white eggs in it, a splendid nest, stock-full of the fireflies that light the little hen at night, he showed it privately first to Hurry Ghose, and then to Sumpsi Din, and lastly to Budhoo, the sweeper's son; and not one of them could he coax to carry off a single egg in company with him.

Sonny Sahib recognised the force of public opinion, and left the weaver-bird to her house-keeping in peace, but he felt privately injured by it.
Certainly the other boys could tell wonderful stories--stories of princesses and fairies and demons--Sumpsi Din's were the best--that made Sonny Sahib's blue eyes widen in the dark, when they all sat together on a charpoy by the door of the hut, and the stars glimmered through the tamarind-trees.

A charpoy is a bed, and everybody in Rubbulgurh puts one outside, for sociability, in the evening.

Not much of a bed, only four short rickety legs held together with knotted string, but it answers very well.
Sonny Sahib didn't seem to know any stories--he could only tell the old one about the fighting Abdul saw over and over again--but it was the single thing they could do better than he did.