"Were we overheard?" he asked.
But Ranjoor Singh did not seem to care any more, and did not trouble
to answer him.
Outside the door was a bullock-cart, of the kind in which women make
long journeys, with a painted, covered super-structure. The German
followed Ranjoor Singh into it, and without any need for orders the
Sikh driver began to twist the bullocks' tails and send them along at
the pace all India loves. Then Ranjoor Singh began to pay attention
to the German's dress, pulling off his expensive turban and replacing
that and his clothes with cheaper, dirtier ones.
"Why?" asked the German.
"I will show you why," said Ranjoor Singh.
Then they sat back, each against a side of the cart, squatting
native style.
"This regiment that I will show you is mine," said Ranjoor Singh. "I
command a squadron of it--or, rather, did, until I became suspected.
Every man in the regiment is mine, and will follow me at a word. When
I give the word they will kill their English officers."
He leaned his head out of the opening to spit; there seemed
something in his mouth that tasted nasty.
"Why did they mutiny?" asked the German.
"Ordered to France!" said Ranjoor Singh, with lowered eyes.
For a while there was silence as the cart bumped through the muddy
rutty streets; the only sound that interfered with thought was the
driver's voice, apostrophizing the bullocks; and the abuse he poured
on them was so time-honored as to be unnoticeable, like the cawing of
the city crows.
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