Next in order to me was Gooja Singh, and although I have spared the regiment’s shame as much as possible, I doubt not that man’s spirit has crept out here and there between my words—­as a smell creeps from under coverings.  He hated me, being jealous.  He hated Ranjoor Singh, because of merited rebuke and punishment.  He was all for himself, and if one said one thing, he must say another, lest the first man get too much credit.  Furthermore, he was a BADMASH, [Footnote:  Low ruffian.] born of a money-lender’s niece to a man mean enough to marry such.  Other true charges I could lay against him, but my tale is of Ranjoor Singh and why should I sully it with mean accounts; Gooja Singh must trespass in among it, but let that be all.

Third of us daffadars in order of seniority was Anim Singh, a big man, born in the village next my father’s.  He was a naik in the Tirah in ’97 when he came to the rescue of an officer, splitting the skull of an Orakzai, wounding three others, and making prisoner a fourth who sought to interfere.  Thus he won promotion, and he held it after somewhat the same manner.  A blunt man.  A fairly good man.  A very good man with the saber.  A gambler, it is true—­but whose affair is that?  A ready eye for rustling curtains and footholds near open windows, but that is his affair again—­until the woman’s husband intervenes.  And they say he can look after himself in such cases.  At least, he lives.  Behold him, sahib.  Aye, that is he yonder, swaggering as if India can scarcely hold him—­that one with his arm in a sling.  A Sikh, sahib, with a soldier’s heart and ears too big for his head—­excellent things on outpost, where the little noises often mean so much, but all too easy for Gooja Singh to whisper into.

Of the other four, the next was Ramnarain Singh, the shortest as to inches of us all, but perhaps the most active on his feet.  A man with a great wealth of beard and too much dignity due to his father’s THALUKDARI [Footnote:  Landed estate.] His father pockets the rent of three fat villages, so the son believes himself a wisehead.  A great talker.  Brave in battle, as one must be to be daffadar of Outram’s Own, but too assertive of his own opinion.  He and Gooja Singh were ever at outs, resentful of each other’s claim to wisdom.

Next was Chatar Singh, like me, son and grandson of a soldier of the raj—­a bold man, something heavy on his horse, but able to sever a sheep in two with one blow of his saber—­very well regarded by the troopers because of physical strength and willingness to overlook offenses.  Chatar Singh’s chief weakness was respect for cunning.  Having only a great bull’s heart in him and ability to go forward and endure, he regarded cunning as very admirable; and so Gooja Singh had one daffadar to work on from the outset (although I did what I could to make trouble between them).

The remaining two non-commissioned officers were naiks—­corporals, as you would say—­Surath Singh and Mirath Singh, both rather recently promoted from the ranks and therefore likely to see both sides to a question (whereas a naik should rightly see but one).  Very early I had taken those two naiks in hand, showing them friendship, harping on the honor and pleasure of being daffadar and on the chance of quick promotion.