"I, too, am not yet quite recovered."

"From what?" I asked, impudent because I felt desperate. But I drew
no fire.

"I do not know the English name for my complaint," he said. (But he
spoke English better than I, he having mastered it, whereas I was
only born to its careless use.)

"How long do you expect to remain on the sick list?" I asked,
because a woman once told me that the way to make a man talk is to
seem to be interested in himself.

"Who knows?" said he.

He showed me about the camp, and we came to a stand at last under
the branches of an enormous mango tree. Early though it was, a Sikh
non-commissioned officer was already sitting propped against the
trunk with his bandaged feet stretched out in front of him--a
peculiar attitude for a Sikh.

"That one knows English," my guide said, nodding. And making me a
most profound salaam, he added: "Why not talk with him? I have
duties. I must go."

The officer turned away, and I paid him the courtesy due from one
man to another. It shall always be a satisfying memory that I raised
my hat to him and that he saluted me.

"What is that officer's name?" I asked, and the man on the ground