On night expeditions, the Somali would be disguised, sometimes as a leprous beggar, as stable-boy, again as an Arab, sometimes as a renegade sepoy from a Native Border Levy, sometimes as a poor fisherman, again as a Sidi boatman, he being, like his master, exceptionally good at disguises of all kinds, and knowing Hindustani, Arabic, and his native Somal dialect.

He was an expert bugler, and in that capacity stuck like a burr to the Colonel by day, looking very smart and workmanlike in khaki uniform and being of more than average usefulness with rifle and bayonet.  Not until after the restoration of order did Mr. Edward Jones, formerly of the Duri High School, long puzzled as to where he had seen him before, realize who he was.

* * * * *

In a low dark room, dimly lighted that evening by wick-and-saucer butties, squatted, lay, sat, stood and sprawled a curious collection of scoundrels.  The room was large, and round the four sides of it ran a very broad, very low, and very filthy divan, intended for the rest and repose of portly bunnias,[65] seths,[66] brokers, shopkeepers and others of the commercial fraternity, what time they assembled to chew pan and exchange lies and truths anent money and the markets.  A very different assembly now occupied its greasy lengths vice the former habitues of the salon, now dispersed, dead, robbed, ruined, held to ransom, or cruelly blackmailed.

  [65] Dealers.
  [66] Money-lenders.

In the seat of honour (an extra cushion), sat the blind faquir who, with his clerkly colleague, had set the original match to the magazine by inciting the late Mr. Dearman’s coolies.  Apparently a relentless, terrible fanatic and bitter hater of the English, for his councils were all of blood and fire, rapine and slaughter, he taunted his hearers with their supine cowardice in that the Military Prison still held out, its handful of defenders still manned its walls, nay, from time to time, made sallies and terrible reprisals upon a careless ill-disciplined enemy.

“Were I but as other men!  Had I but mine eyes!” he screamed, “I would overwhelm the place in an hour.  Hundreds to one you are—­and you are mocked, robbed, slaughtered.”

A thin-faced, evil-looking, squint-eyed Hindu whose large, thick, gold-rimmed goggles accorded ill with the sword that lay athwart his crossed legs, addressed him in English.

“Easy to talk, Moulvie.  Had you your sight you could perhaps drill and arm the mob into an army, eh?  Find them repeating rifles and ammunition, find them officers, find them courage?  Is it not?  Yes.”

“Hundreds to one, Babu,” grunted the blind man, and spat.

“I would urge upon this august assemblee,” piped a youthful weedy person, “that recreemination is not argument, and that many words butter no parsneeps, so to speak.  We are met to decide as to whether the treasure shall be removed to Pirgunge or still we keep it with us here in view of sudden sallies of foes.  I hereby beg to propose and my honourable friend Mister——­”