Nobody advised him; so with singularly British phlegm and not more than ordinary common sense he devised a method of his own for scotching night-prowlers.  He stationed his men at well-considered vantage-points, and trusted them.  With a party of ten, he patrolled the city ceaselessly himself and whipped every “watchman” he caught sleeping.  One by one, the blackmailing brigade began to see the discomfort of a job that called for real wakefulness, and deserted over the Hills to urge the resumption of raids in force.  One by one, the night-prowling fraternity were shot as they sneaked past sentries.  One by one, the tale of robberies diminished.  It was merely a question of one man, and he awake, having power to act without first submitting a request to somebody in triplicate on blue-form B.

The time came, after a month or two, when even natives dared to leave their houses after dark.  The time came very soon, indeed, when the nearest tribes began to hold war councils and inveigh against the falling off of the supply of plunder.  Cunningham was complimented openly.  He was even praised by one of “Them.”  So it was perfectly natural, and quite in keeping with tradition, that he should shortly be relieved, and that a senior to him should be placed in charge of his little force, with orders to “organize” it.

The organization process lasted about twelve hours; at the end of that time every single man had deserted, horse and arms!  Two nights later, the prowling and plundering was once more in full swing, and Cunningham was blamed for it; it was obvious to any man of curry-and-port-wine proclivities that his method, or lack of it, had completely undermined his men’s loyalty!

A whole committee of gray-headed gentlemen took trouble to point out to him his utter failure; but a brigadier, who was not a member of that committee, and who was considered something of an upstart, asked that he might be appointed to a troop of irregular cavalry that had recently been raised.  With glee—­with a sigh of relief so heartfelt and unanimous that it could be heard across the street—­the committee leaped at the suggestion.  The proper person was induced without difficulty to put his signature to the required paper, and Cunningham found himself transferred to irregular oblivion.  Incidentally he found himself commanding few less than a hundred men, so many of whose first names were Mahommed or Mohammed that the muster-roll looked like a list of Allah’s prophets.

Cunningham was more than a little bit astonished, on the day he joined, in camp, a long way from Peshawur, to find his friend Mahommed Gunga, seated in a bell tent with the Brigadier.  He caught sight of the long black military boot and silver spur, and half-recognized the up-and-down movement of the crossed leg long before he reached the tent.  It was like father and son meeting, almost, as the Rajput rose to greet him and waited respectfully until he had paid his compliments to his new commander.  Cunningham felt throat-bound, and could scarcely more than stammer his introduction of himself.