I'm told some of his squadron were
near, and they thrashed a man. Now, Ranjoor Singh is missing."
"So?" said Yasmini, arching her whole lithe body into a setting for
the prettiest yawn that Kirby had ever seen. "So the Jat is missing!
Yes, he came here, sahib. He was never invited, but he came. He sat
here saying nothing until it suited him to sit where another man was;
then he struck the other man--so, with the sole of his foot--and
took the man's place, and heard what he came to hear. Later, outside
in the street, he and his men set on the Afridi whom he had struck
with his foot and beat him."
"I have heard a variation of that," said Kirby.
"Have you ever heard, sahib, that he who strikes the wearer of a
Northern knife is like to feel that knife? So Ranjoor Singh, the Jat,
is missing?"
"Yes," said Kirby, frowning, for he was not pleased to hear Ranjoor
Singh spoken of slightingly. A Jat may be a good enough man, and
usually is, but a Sikh is a Jat who is better.
"And if he is missing, what has that to do with me?" asked Yasmini.
"I have heard--men say--"
"Yes?" she said, laughing, for it amused her almost more than any
other thing to see dignity disarmed.
"Men say that you know most of what goes on in Delhi--"
"And--?" She was Impudence arrayed in gossamer.
Colonel Kirby pulled himself together; after all, it was not for
long that anything less than an army corps could make him feel
unequal to a situation.
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