"Now, I wonder whether I handled that situation rightly?" he asked
himself between chuckles. "One thing I know--if that old ruffian
plays another trick on me--one more of any kind--Ill show my teeth.
There's a thing known as the limit!"

He would not have wondered, though, if he could have overheard Mahommed
Gunga less than an hour later. The Risaldar had stayed behind to make
sure nothing had been forgotten, and one of his men remained with him.

"There be sahibs and then sahibs," said Mahommed Gunga. "Two kinds are
the worst--those who strike readily in anger and use bad language
when annoyed, and those whose lips are thin and who save their
vengeance to be wreaked later on. They are worse, either of them, than
the sahib who is usually drunk."

"And Cunnigan?"

"Is altogether otherwise. As his father was, and as a few other sahibs
I have met, he understands what is not spoken--concedes dignity to
him who is caught napping, as one who having disarmed his adversary,
allows him to recover his weapon--and--"

"And?"

"Proves himself a man worth following! I myself will slit the throat
of any man I catch disparaging the name of Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur! By
the blood of God--by my medals, my own honor, and the good name of
Pukka-Cunnigan, his father, I swear it!"

"Rung Ho!" grinned the six-foot son of war who, rode beside him.