Again Mahommed Gunga bowed, without a smile or a tremor on his face;
again a growled order was echoed and re-echoed through the dark. The
drumming stopped.

"Is there oil in the bahadur's lamp?" asked Mahommed Gunga.

"Probably not," said Cunningham.

"I will command that--"

"You needn't trouble, thank you, risaldar-sahib. I sleep better in the
dark. I'll be glad to see you after breakfast as usual--ah--
without your shoes, unless you come in uniform. Good night."

The Rajput signed to the others and withdrew with dignity. Cunningham
reloaded his rifle in the dark and lay down. Within five minutes the
swinging of the punka and the squeaking of the rope resumed, but
regularly this time; Mahommed Gunga had apparently unearthed a man who
understood the business. Reaction, the intermittent coolth, as the mat
fan swung above his face, the steady, evenly timed squeak and movement
--not least, the calm of well-asserted dignity--all joined to have
one way, and Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur slept, to dream of fire-eyed tigers
dancing on tombstones laid on the roof of hell, and of a grandfather in
full general's uniform, who said: "Well done, bahadur!"

But outside, by a remade camp-fire, Mahommed Gunga sat and chuckled to
himself, and every now and then grew eloquent to the bearded men who
sat beside him.

"Aie! Did you hear him reprimand me? By the beard of God's prophet,