Anyhow, Grim, who taught me what I have just written, refused to listen
to their bleating until Narayan Singh first told in their hearing all
that he knew about the night's events. They were forced to sit down on
the floor and listen to him like three coffee-shop loungers being told a
story; and I don't doubt that the effect was strengthened by the Sikh's
standing facing them, for the contrast was as between jackals and a
lion.

Not that they were small men, for they weren't, or mere ten-dollar
assassins picked up in the suk. They looked well fed, and wore fine
linen, whereas Narayan Singh was in rags and had lost weight in our
recent desert marching, so that his cheek-bones stood out and he looked
superficially much more like a man at bay than they did.

But their well-cared-for faces were lean in the wrong place, and puffy
under the eyes. In place of courage they flaunted an insolent leer, and
the smile intended to convey self-confidence betrayed to a close
observer anxiety bordering on panic.

The most offensive part about them really was their feet, which are
indices of character too often overlooked. They had come to their task
in slippers, which they had kicked off before reaching the veranda, and
instead of the firm, tough feet that a real man stands on, what they
displayed as they squatted were subtle, soft things, not exactly flabby,
but even more suggestive of treachery than their thin beaks and shifty
eyes.

To sum them up, they were dandies, of the kind who join the Young Turk
Party and believe the New Era can be distilled of talk and tricks; and
they looked like mean animals compared to that staunch conservative