skin-buyer rose up, took one long look at the fakir and ran.

"Well, I'll be!" exclaimed the sentry.

"You'll be worse than that," said Brown, "if you use that language
anywhere where I'm about! I'll not have it, d'you hear? Get on ahead,
and open the door of the clink!"

The sentry obeyed him, and a moment later the fakir was thrust into
a four-square mud-walled room, and the door was locked on him.

"Back to your post," commanded Brown. "And next time I hear you swearing,
I'll treat you to a double-trick, my man! About turn. Quick march."

The sentry trudged off without daring to answer him, and Brown took
a good look at the fakir through the iron bars that protected the
top half of the door. Then he went off to see about his supper, of
newly slaughtered goat-chops and chupatties baked in ghee. His soul
revolted at the thought of it, but it was his duty to eat it and set
an example to the men; and duty was the only thing that mattered
in Bill Brown's scheme of things.

"Maybe it's true," he muttered, "and maybe it's all lies; there's
no knowing. Maybe India's going to run blood, as these fakirs seem
to think, and maybe it isn't. There'll be more blood shed than mine
in that case! `Hookum hai'--`It is orders,' heh ? Well--there's
more than one sort of `Hookum hai!' I've got my orders too!"

He doubled the guard, when supper bad been eaten and the guardroom
had been swept and the pots and kettle had been burnished until they