To make the situation even more ticklish, Cunningham’s servant, in his zeal for his master’s comfort, had forgotten to sham sickness, and instead of limping was in abominably active evidence.  He was even doing more than was expected of him.  Ralph Cunningham had said nothing to him—­had not needed to; every single thing that a pampered sahib could imagine that he needed was done for him in the proper order, without noise or awkwardness, and the Risaldar cursed as he watched the clockwork-perfect service.  He had hoped for a lapse that might call forth some pointer, either by way of irritation or amusement, as to how young Cunningham was taking things.

But not a thing went wrong and not a sign of any sort gave Cunningham.  The youngster did not smile either to himself darkly or at his servant.  He lit his after-breakfast cigar and smoked it peacefully, as though he had spent an absolutely normal night, without even a dream to worry him, and if he eyed Mahommed Gunga at all, he did it so naturally, and with so little interest, that no deductions could be drawn from it.  He was neither more nor less than a sahib at his ease—­which was disconcerting, very, to the Oriental mind.

He smoked the cigar to a finish, without a word or sign that he wished to give audience.  Then his eyes lit for the first time on the tiger-skin that was pegged out tight, raw side upward, for the sun to sterilize; he threw the butt of his cigar away and strolled out to examine the skin without a sign to Mahommed Gunga, counted the claws one by one to make sure that no superstitious native had purloined any of them, and returned to his chair on the veranda without a word.

“Is he vindictive, then?” wondered Mahommed Gunga.  “Is he a mean man?  Will he bear malice and get even with me later on?  If so—­”

“Present my compliments to Mahommed Gunga-sahib, and ask him to be good enough to—­”

The Risaldar heard the order, and was on his way to the veranda before the servant started to convey the message.  He took no chances on a reprimand about his shoes, for he swaggered up in riding-boots, which no soldier can be asked to take off before he treads on a private floor; and he saluted as a soldier, all dignity.  It was the only way by which he could be sure to keep the muscles of his face from telling tales.

“Huzoor?”

“Morning, Mahommed Gunga.  Take a seat, won’t you?”

A camp-chair creaked under the descending Rajput’s weight, and creaked again as he remembered to settle himself less stiffly—­less guiltily.

“I say, I’m going to ask you chaps to do me a favor.  You don’t mind obliging me now and then, do you?”

The youngster leaned forward confidentially, one elbow on his knee, and looked half-serious, as though what he had to ask were more important than the ordinary.

“Sahib, there is nothing that we will not do.”

“Ah!  Then you won’t mind my mentioning this, I’m sure.  Next time you want to kennel a tiger in my bedroom, d’you mind giving me notice in advance?  It’s not the stink I mind, nor being waked up; it’s the deuced awful risk of hurting somebody.  Besides—­look how I spoilt that tiger’s mask!  The skins I’ve always admired at home had been shot where it didn’t show so badly.”