He did not say a word of Germany,
or Belgium.
In front of the third squadron from the right, Risaldar-Major
Ranjoor Singh sat his charger like a big bronze statue. He would have
stooped to see his right spur bettor, that shone in spite of mud, for
though he has been a man these five-and-twenty years, Ranjoor Singh
has neither lost his boyhood love of such things, nor intends to; he
has been accused of wearing solid silver spurs in bed. But it hurt
him to bend much, after a day's hard exercise on a horse such as he
rode.
Once--in a rock-strewn gully where the whistling Himalayan wind was
Acting Antiseptic-of-the-Day--a young surgeon had taken hurried
stitches over Ranjoor Singh's ribs without probing deep enough for an
Afghan bullet; that bullet burned after a long day in the saddle. And
Bagh was--as the big brute's name implied--a tiger of a horse,
unweakened even by monsoon weather, and his habit was to spring with
terrific suddenness when his rider moved on him.
So Ranjoor Singh sat still. He was willing to eat agony at any time
for the squadron's sake--for a squadron of Outram's Own is a unity to
marvel at, or envy; and its leader a man to be forgiven spurs a half-inch
longer than the regulation. As a soldier, however, he was careful
of himself when occasion offered.
Sikh-soldier-wise, he preferred Bagh to all other horses in the
world, because it had needed persuasion, much stroking of a black
beard--to hide anxiety--and many a secret night-ride--to sweat the
brute's savagery--before the colonel-sahib could be made to see his
virtues as a charger and accept him into the regiment.
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