The fear of ridicule—­there was the weak point of the Afridi, as Ralston very well knew.  To be laughed at—­Futteh Ali Shah, who was wont to lord it among his friends, writhed under the mere possibility.  And how they would laugh in and round about Peshawur!  A fine figure he would cut as he rode through the streets with every ragged bystander jeering at the man who was walked into docility and submission by his Excellency the Chief Commissioner.

“My life would be intolerable,” he said, “were the story to get about.”

Ralston shrugged his shoulders.

“But why should it get about?”

“I do not know, but it surely will.  It may be that the trees have ears and eyes and a mouth to speak.”  He edged a little nearer to the Commissioner.  “It may be, too,” he said cunningly, “that your Excellency loves to tell a good story after dinner.  Now there is one way to stop that story.”

Ralston laughed.  “If I could hold my tongue, you mean,” he replied.

Futteh Ali Shah came nearer still.  He rode up close and leaned a little over towards Ralston.

“Your Excellency would lose the story,” he said, “but on the other hand there would be a gain—­a gain of many hours of sleep passed otherwise in guessing.”

He spoke in an insinuating fashion, which made Ralston disinclined to strike a bargain—­and he nodded his head like one who wishes to convey that he could tell much if only he would.  But Ralston paused before he answered, and when he answered it was only to put a question.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

And the reply came in a low quick voice.

“There was a message sent through Chiltistan.”

Ralston started.  Was it in this strange way the truth was to come to him?  He sat his horse carelessly.  “I know,” he said.  “Some melons and some bags of grain.”

Futteh Ali Shah was disappointed.  This devilish Chief Commissioner knew everything.  Yet the story of the walk must not get abroad in Peshawur, and surely it would unless the Chief Commissioner were pledged to silence.  He drew a bow at a venture.

“Can your Excellency interpret the message?  As they interpret it in Chiltistan?” and it seemed to him that he had this time struck true.  “It is a little thing I ask of your Excellency.”

“It is not a great thing, to be sure,” Ralston admitted.  He looked at the zemindar and laughed.  “But I could tell the story rather well,” he said doubtfully.  “It would be an amusing story as I should tell it.  Yet—­well, we will see,” and he changed his tone suddenly.  “Interpret to me that present as it is interpreted in the villages of Chiltistan.”

Futteh Ali Shah looked about him fearfully, making sure that there was no one within earshot.  Then in a whisper he said:  “The grain is the army which will rise up from the hills and descend from the heavens to destroy the power of the Government.  The melons are the forces of the Government; for as easily as melons they will be cut into pieces.”