“’Ere!  What’s the gaime?” he inquired roughly.  “Can’t yer see this is Firs-Class, and if you got a Firs-Class ticket, can’t yer see there’s two Sahibs ’ere?  Sling yer ’ook, sour.[59] Go on, jao!"[60]

  [59] Pig.
  [60] Go away.

The man gave no evidence of having understood Horace.

“Sahib!” said he softly, addressing Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley.

The Colonel went on reading.

“Jao, I tell yer,” repeated Horace, rather proud of his grasp of the vernacular.  “Slope, barnshoot."[61]

  [61] An insulting epithet.

“Sahib!” said the man again.

The Colonel looked up and then sprang to his feet with outstretched hand.

“Bahut salaam,[62] Subedar Major Saheb,” he cried, and wrung the hand of the “big fat buck-nigger” (who possessed the same medal-ribbons that he himself did) as he poured forth a torrent of mingled Pushtu, Urdu, and English while the Native Officer alternately saluted and pressed the Colonel’s hand to his forehead in transports of pure and wholly disinterested joy.

  [62] Hearty greeting.

“They told me the Colonel Sahib would be passing through this week,” he said, “and I have met all the trains that I might look upon his face.  I am weary of my furlough and would rejoin but for my law-suit.  Praise be to Allah that I have met my Colonel Sahib,” and the man who had five war decorations was utterly unashamed of the tear that trickled.

“How does my son, Sahib?” he asked in Urdu.

“Well, Subedar Major Saheb, well.  Worthily of his father—­whose place in the pultan may he come to occupy.”

“Praise be to God, Sahib!  Let him no more seek his father’s house nor look upon his father’s face again, if he please thee not in all things.  And is there good news of Malet-Marsac Sahib, O Colonel Sahib?” Then, with a glance at Horace, he asked:  “Why does this low-born one dare to enter the carriage of the Colonel Sahib and sit?  Truly the relwey terain is a great caste-breaker!  Clearly he belongs to the class of the ghora-log, the common soldiers.” ...

“’Oo was that,—­a Rajah?” inquired the astounded Horace, as the train moved on.

“One of the people who keep India safe for you bagmen,” replied the Colonel, who was a trifle indignant on behalf of the insulted Subedar Major Mir Daoud Khan Mir Hafiz Ullah Khan of the 99th Baluch Light Infantry.

“No doubt he thought I was another officer,” reflected Horace.  “They think you’re a gent, if you chivvy ’em.”

At Umbalpur Colonel Wilberforce Wriothesley left the train and Mr. Faggit had the carriage to himself—­for a time.

And it was only through his own firmness and proper pride that he had it to himself for so long, for at the very next station a beastly little brute of a black man actually tried to get in—­in with him, Mr. Horace Faggit of the fine old British Firm of Schneider, Schnitzel, Schnorrer & Schmidt, manufacturers of best quality Birmingham jewellery and “importers” of a fine Whitechapel wine.