"Look at his beak!" said one of the two men by the window. "Never
see a big bird act that way? Look at his bright eye!"
"Wish mine were as bright, and my beak as aquiline; means directness
--soldierly directness, that does!"
"Who is your best native officer, supposing you've any choice?"
asked the man in the drab silk suit, speaking to the ceiling
apparently.
"Ranjoor Singh," said Kirby promptly.
It was quite clear there was no doubt in his mind.
"How is he best? In what way?"
"Best man I've got. Fit to command the regiment."
"Um-m-m!"
"Yes," said Kirby.
The man in drab sat sidewise and caught Kirby's eye, which was not
difficult. There was nothing furtive about him.
"With a censorship that isn't admitted, but which has been rather
obvious for more than a month; with all forces undergoing field
training during the worst of the rains--it's fair to suppose your men
smell something?"
"They've been sweating, certainly."
"Do they smell a rat?"
"Yes."
"Ask questions?"
"Yes."
"What do you tell them?"
"That I don't know, and they must wait until I do."
"Any recent efforts been made to tamper with them?"
"Not more than I reported. You know, of course, of the translations
from Canadian papers, discussing the rejection of Sikh immigrants?
Each man received a copy through the mail.
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