“I hope you have not been waiting very long.  They should have told me you were here,” said Ralston, and though he spoke politely, there was just a suggestion that it was not really of importance whether Futteh Ali Shah was kept waiting or not.

“I have brought you here that together we may put an end to your dispute with Rahat Mian,” said Ralston, and, taking no notice of the exclamation of surprise which broke from the Pathan’s lips, he rang the bell and ordered Rahat Mian to be shown in.

“Now let us see if we cannot come to an understanding,” said Ralston, and he seated himself between the two antagonists.

But though they talked for an hour, they came no nearer to a settlement.  Futteh Ali Shah was obdurate; Rahat Mian’s temper and pride rose in their turn.  At the sight of each other the old grievance became fresh as a thing of yesterday in both their minds.  Their dark faces, with the high cheek-bones and the beaked noses of the Afridi, became passionate and fierce.  Finally Futteh Ali Shah forgot all his Bombay manners; he leaned across Ralston, and cried to Rahat Mian: 

“Do you know what I would like to do with you?  I would like to string my bedstead with your skin and lie on it.”

And upon that Ralston arrived at the conclusion that the meeting might as well come to an end.

He dismissed Rahat Mian, promising him a safe conveyance to his home.  But he had not yet done with Futteh Ali Shah.

“I am going out,” he said suavely.  “Shall we walk a little way together?”

Futteh Ali Shah smiled.  Landowner of importance that he was, the opportunity to ride side by side through Peshawur with the Chief Commissioner did not come every day.  The two men went out into the porch.  Ralston’s horse was waiting, with a scarlet-clad syce at its head.  Ralston walked on down the steps and took a step or two along the drive.  Futteh Ali Shah lagged behind.

“Your Excellency is forgetting your horse.”

“No,” said Ralston.  “The horse can follow.  Let us walk a little.  It is a good thing to walk.”

It was nine o’clock in the morning, and the weather was getting hot.  And it is said that the heat of Peshawur is beyond the heat of any other city from the hills to Cape Comorin.  Futteh Ali Shah, however, could not refuse.  Regretfully he signalled to his own groom who stood apart in charge of a fine dark bay stallion from the Kirghiz Steppes.  The two men walked out from the garden and down the road towards Peshawur city, with their horses following behind them.

“We will go this way,” said Ralston, and he turned to the left and walked along a mud-walled lane between rich orchards heavy with fruit.  For a mile they thus walked, and then Futteh Ali Shah stopped and said: 

“I am very anxious to have your Excellency’s opinion of my horse.  I am very proud of it.”

“Later on,” said Ralston, carelessly.  “I want to walk for a little”; and, conversing upon indifferent topics, they skirted the city and came out upon the broad open road which runs to Jamrud and the Khyber Pass.