Then Kirby read the telegram. He nodded to Warrington.
Warrington, his finger-ends pressed tight into his palms and his
forearms quivering, raised one eyebrow.
"Yes," said Kirby.
"War, sir?"
"War."
"We're under orders?"
"Not yet. It says, 'War likely to be general. Be ready.' Here, read
it for yourself."
"They wouldn't have sent us that if--"
"Addressed to 0.C. troops. They had those ready written out and sent
one to every O.C. on the list the second they knew."
"Well, sir?"
"Leave the room, Lal Singh!"
The servant, who was screwing up his courage to edge nearer, did as
he was told.
Kirby stood still, facing the mirror, with both arms behind him.
"They're certain to send native Indian troops to Europe," he said.
"We're ready, sir! We're ready to a shoe-string! We'll go first!"
"We'll be last, Warrington, supposing we go at all, unless we find
Ranjoor Singh! They'll send us to do police work in Bengal, or to
guard the Bombay docks and watch the other fellows go. I'm going to
the club. You'd better come with me. Hurry into dry clothes." He
glanced at the clock. "We'll just have time to drive past the house
where you say he's supposed to be, if you hurry."
The last three words were lost, for Captain Warrington had turned
into a thunderbolt and disappeared; the noise of his going was as
when a sudden windstorm slams all the doors at once.
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