Thirty minutes later Warrington found him just emerging from a brown
study.
"India's all roots-in-the-air an' dancin'!" he remarked cheerfully.
"There was a babu sittin' by the barrack gate who offers to eat a
German a day, as long as we'll catch 'em for him. He's the same man
that was tryin' for a job as clerk the other day."
"Fat man?"
"Very."
"Uh-h-h! No credentials--bad hat! Send him packing?"
"The guard did."
Food was laid on a small table by a silent servant who had eyes in
the back of his head and ears that would have caught and analyzed the
lightest whisper; but the colonel and his adjutant ate hurriedly in
silence, and the only thing remarkable that the servant was able to
report to the regiment afterward was that both drank only water.
Since all Sikhs are supposed to be abstainers from strong drink, that
was accepted as a favorable omen.
The shay arrived on time to the second. It was the only closed
carriage the regiment owned--a heavy C-springed landau thing, taken
over from the previous mess. The colonel peered through outer
darkness at the box seat, but the driver did not look toward him; all
he could see was that there was only one man on the box.
"Where to?" asked Warrington.
"The club."
Warrington jumped in after him, and the driver sent his pair
straining at the traces as if they had a gun behind them.
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