he had spent an absolutely normal night, without even a dream to worry
him, and if he eyed Mahommed Gunga at all, he did it so naturally, and
with so little interest, that no deductions could be drawn from it. He
was neither more nor less than a sahib at his ease--which was
disconcerting, very, to the Oriental mind.

He smoked the cigar to a finish, without a word or sign that he wished
to give audience. Then his eyes lit for the first time on the
tiger-skin that was pegged out tight, raw side upward, for the sun to
sterilize; he threw the butt of his cigar away and strolled out to
examine the skin without a sign to Mahommed Gunga, counted the claws
one by one to make sure that no superstitious native had purloined any
of them, and returned to his chair on the veranda without a word.

"Is he vindictive, then?" wondered Mahommed Gunga. "Is he a mean man?
Will he bear malice and get even with me later on? If so--"

"Present my compliments to Mahommed Gunga-sahib, and ask him to be good
enough to--"

The Risaldar heard the order, and was on his way to the veranda before
the servant started to convey the message. He took no chances on a
reprimand about his shoes, for he swaggered up in riding-boots, which
no soldier can be asked to take off before he treads on a private
floor; and he saluted as a soldier, all dignity. It was the only way
by which he could be sure to keep the muscles of his face from telling
tales.

"Huzoor?"