And Tom had his own peculiarities.  Born in a Shorncliffe barrack hut, he had a feudal attitude toward people of higher birth.  As for a prince—­ there was almost no limit to what he would not endure from one, without concerning himself whether the prince was right or wrong.  Not that he did not know his rights; his limitations were not Prussian; he would stand up for his rights, and on their account would answer the maharajah back more bluntly and even offensively than Samson, for instance, would have dreamed of doing.  But a prince was a prince, and that was all about it.

So, on the morning following the flight of Yasmini and Tess, Tom, sore-eyed from lack of sleep but with an eye-opener of raw brandy inside him, and a sense of irritation due to the absence of his dog, roundly cursed nine unhappy mahouts for having dared let an elephant steal his rum—­drilled two companies of heavy infantry in marching order on parade until the sweat ran down into their boots and each miserable man saw two suns in the sky where one should be—­dismissed them with a threat of extra parades for a month to come unless they picked their feet up cleaner—­and reported, with his heart in his throat, at Gungadhura’s palace.

As luck would have it, the Sikh doctor was just leaving.  It always suited that doctor to be very friendly with Tom Tripe, because there were pickings, in the way of sick certificates that Tom could pass along to him, and shortcomings that Tom could overlook.  He told Tom that the maharajah was in no mood to be spoken to, and in no condition to be seen.

“Then you go back and tell his highness,” Tom retorted, “that I’ve got to speak with him!  Business is business!”

The doctor used both hands to illustrate.

“But his cheek is cut with a great gash from here to here!  He was testing a sword-blade in the armory, last night, and it broke and pierced him.”

“Hasn’t a soldier like me seen wounds before?  I don’t swoon away at the sight of blood!  He can do his talking through a curtain if he’s minded!”

“I would not dare, Mr. Tripe!  He has given orders.  You must ask one of the eunuchs—­really.”

“I thought you and I were friends?” said Tom, with whiskers bristling.

“Always!  I hope always!  But in this instance—­”

Tom folded both arms behind his back, drill-master-on-parade fashion.

“Suit yourself,” he answered.  “Friendship’s friendship.  Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.  I want to see his highness.  I want to see him bad.  You’re the man that’s asked to turn the trick for me.”

“Well, Mr. Tripe, I will try.  I will try.  But what shall I tell him?”

Tom hesitated.  That doctor was a more or less discreet individual, or he would not have been sent for.  Besides, he had lied quite plausibly about the dagger-wound.  But there are limits.

“Tell him,” he said presently, “that I’ve found the man who left that sword in his armory o’ purpose for to injure him!  Say I need private and personal instructions quick!”