"Sir!" came the ready answer, and the sling-swivels of a rifle clicked
as the man on guard at the crossroads shouldered it. There are some
men who are called "sir" without any title to it, just as there are
some sergeants who receive a colonel's share of deference when out
on a non-commissioned officer's command. Bill Brown was one of them.

"Come here, will you!"

There came the sound of heavy footfalls, and a thud as a rifle-butt
descended to the earth again. Brown moved the lamp, and its beams
fell on a rifleman who stood close beside him at attention--like a
jinnee formed suddenly from empty blackness.

"Arrest this fakir. Cram him in the clink."

"Very good, sir!"

The sentry took one step forward, with his fixed bayonet at the "charge,"
and the fakir sat still and eyed him.

"Oh, have a care, sahib!" wailed the Beluchi. "This is very holy man!"

"Silence!" ordered Brown. "Here. Hold the lamp."

The bayonet-point pressed against the fakir's ribs, and he drew back
an inch or two to get away from it. He was evidently able to feel
pain when it was inflicted by any other than himself.

"Come on," growled the sentry. "Forward. Quick march. If you don't
want two inches in you!"