“Innumerable tigers, sahib.”

“Good.  Will you order a start then?”

The Risaldar departed round the corner of the bungalow, and a minute or two later Cunningham’s ears caught the sound of a riding-switch, lustily applied, and of muffled groans.  He suspected readily enough what was going on, particularly since his servant was not in evidence, but he dared not laugh on the veranda.  He went inside, and made believe to be busy with his bag before he relaxed the muscles of his face.

“Now, I wonder whether I handled that situation rightly?” he asked himself between chuckles.  “One thing I know—­if that old ruffian plays another trick on me—­one more of any kind—­Ill show my teeth.  There’s a thing known as the limit!”

He would not have wondered, though, if he could have overheard Mahommed Gunga less than an hour later.  The Risaldar had stayed behind to make sure nothing had been forgotten, and one of his men remained with him.

“There be sahibs and then sahibs,” said Mahommed Gunga.  “Two kinds are the worst—­those who strike readily in anger and use bad language when annoyed, and those whose lips are thin and who save their vengeance to be wreaked later on.  They are worse, either of them, than the sahib who is usually drunk.”

“And Cunnigan?”

“Is altogether otherwise.  As his father was, and as a few other sahibs I have met, he understands what is not spoken—­concedes dignity to him who is caught napping, as one who having disarmed his adversary, allows him to recover his weapon—­and—­”

“And?”

“Proves himself a man worth following!  I myself will slit the throat of any man I catch disparaging the name of Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur!  By the blood of God—­by my medals, my own honor, and the good name of Pukka-Cunnigan, his father, I swear it!”

“Rung Ho!” grinned the six-foot son of war who, rode beside him.

They rode on at a walk past the tombstone that—­at Mahommed Gunga’s orders—­the villagers had decked with sickly scented forest flowers, and as they passed they both saluted it in silence.  The fakir of the night before, sitting not very far away from it, mimicked them.  He sprang on the stone as soon as they were out of sight, scattering the flowers all about him, and calling down the vengeance of a hundred gods on the heads of Christian and Mohammedan alike.

CHAPTER XI

From lone hunt came the yearling cub
And brought a grown kill back;
With fangs aglut “’Tis nothing but
Presumption!” growled the pack.

Ralph Cunningham reached Peshawur at last with no less than nine tigers to his gun, and that in itself would have been sufficient to damn him in the eyes of more than half of the men who held commands there.  Jealousy in those days of slow promotion and intrenched influence had eaten into the very understanding of men whose only excuse for rule over a conquered people ought to have been understanding.