“Aha!  Salaam sahib!  Chota-Cunnigan-bahadur, bohut salaam!  Thy father’s son!  Sahib, I am much honored!”

The white scar blazed, but Mahommed Gunga affected not to notice the discomfort of his victim.  Many more than a hundred sabred gentlemen pressed round to “do themselves the honor,” as they expressed it, of paying Cunningham a compliment.  They rode up like knights in armor in the lists, and saluted like heralds bringing tribute and allegiance.

“Salaam, Chota-Cunnigan!”

“Salaam, sahib!”

“Bohut salaam, bahadur!”

The Generals, the High-Court judges, and Commissioners on the club veranda sat unhonored, while a boy of twenty-two received obeisance from men whose respect a king might envy.  No Rajput ever lived who was not sure that his salute was worth more than tribute; he can be polite on all occasions, and what he thinks mere politeness would be considered overacting in the West, but his respect and his salute he keeps for his equals or his betters—­and they must be men indeed.

The coterie of high officials sat indignation-bound for ten palpitating minutes, until the General remembered that it was his escort that was waiting for him.  He had ordered it an hour too soon, for the express sweet purpose of keeping Cunningham waiting in the sun, but it dawned now on his apoplectic consciousness that his engagement was most urgent.  He descended in a pompous hurry, mounted and demanded why—­ by all the gods of India—­the escort was not lined up to receive him.  A minute later, after a loudly administered reprimand that was meant as much for the swarm of Rajputs as for the indignant Cunningham, he rode off with the escort clattering behind him.

But on the club veranda, when the Rajputs with Mahommed Gunga had dispersed, the big wigs sat and talked the matter over very thoroughly.

“It’s no use blinking matters,” said the senior man present, using a huge handkerchief to wave the flies away from the polished dome which rose between two side wisps of gray hair.  “They’re going to lionize him while he’s here, so we’d better move him on.”

“But where?”

“I’ve got it!  There’s a letter in from Everton at Abu, saying he needs a man badly to go to Howrah and act resident there—­says he hasn’t heard from the missionaries and isn’t satisfied—­wants a man without too much authority to go there and keep an eye on things in general.  Howrah’s a hell of a place from all accounts.”

“But that ’ud be promotion!”

“Can’t be helped.  No excuse for reducing him, so far as I’ve heard.  The trouble is the cub has done too dashed well.  We’ve got to promote him if we want to be rid of him.”

They talked it over for an hour, and at the end of it decided Cunningham should go to Howrah, provided a brigadier could be induced without too much argument to see reason.

“The Brigadier probably wants to keep him, and his Colonel will raise all the different kinds of Cain there are!” suggested the man who had begun the discussion.