“As for me,” he said, telling a tale again, “I wrote once on the seashore sand and signed my name beneath.  A day later I came back to look, but neither name nor words remained.  I was what I had been, and stood where the sea had been, but what I had written in sand affected me not, neither the sea nor any man.  Thought I, if one had lent me money on such a perishable note the courts would now hold him at fault, not me; they would demand evidence, and all he could show them would be what he had himself bargained for.  Now it occurs to me that seashore sand, and the tricks of rogues, and blackmail, and tyranny perhaps are one!”

Eye met eye, all up and down both lines of men.  There was swift searching of hearts, and some of the men at my end of the line began talking in low tones.  So I spoke up and voiced aloud what troubled them.

“If we sign this paper, sahib,” said I, “how do we know they will not find means of bringing it to the notice of the British?”

“We do not know,” he answered.  “Let us hope.  Hope is a great good thing.  If they chained us, and we broke the chains, they might send the broken links to London in proof of what thieves we be.  Who would gain by that?”

I saw a very little frown now and knew that he judged it time to strike on the heated metal.  But Gooja Singh turned his back on Ranjoor Singh.

“Let him sign this thing,” said he, “and let us sign our names beneath his name.  Then he will be in the same trap with us all, and must lead us out of it or perish with us!”

So Gooja Singh offered himself, all unintentionally, to be the scapegoat for us all and I have seldom seen a man so shocked by what befell him.  Only a dozen words spoke Ranjoor Singh—­yet it was as if he lashed him and left him naked.  Whips and a good man’s wrath are one.

“Who gave thee leave to yelp?” said he, and Gooja Singh faced about like a man struck.  By order of the Germans he and I stood in the place of captains on parade, he on the left and I on the right.

“To your place!” said Ranjoor Singh.

Gooja Singh stepped back into line with me, but Ranjoor Singh was not satisfied.

“To your place in the rear!” he ordered.  And so I have seen a man who lost a lawsuit slink round a corner of the court.

Then I spoke up, being stricken with self-esteem at the sight of Gooja Singh’s shame (for I always knew him to be my enemy).

“Sahib,” said I, “shall I pass down the line and ask each man whether he will sign what the Germans ask?”

“Aye!” said he, “like the carrion crows at judgment!  Halt!” he ordered, for already I had taken the first step.  “When I need to send a havildar,” said he, “to ask my men’s permission, I will call for a havildar!  To the rear where you belong!” he ordered.  And I went round to the rear, knowing something of Gooja Singh’s sensations, but loving him no better for the fellow-feeling.  When my footfall had altogether ceased and there was silence in which one could have heard an insect falling to the ground, Ranjoor Singh spoke again.  “There has been enough talk,” said he.  “In pursuance of a plan, I intend to sign whatever the Germans ask.  Those who prefer not to sign what I sign—­fall out!  Fall out, I say!”