I had seen the equipment of the infantry.  One-third of it was an old muzzle-loading fowling-piece, with a ragged rust-hole where the nipples should have been, one-third a wire-bound matchlock with a worm-eaten stock, and one-third a four-bore flint duck-gun without a flint.

‘But it is to be remembered,’ said the King, reaching out for the bottle, ’that he is a very expert log-snatcher and a man of a merry face.  What shall I do to him, Sahib?’

This was interesting.  The timid hill-folk would as soon have refused taxes to their king as revenues to their Gods.

‘If it be the King’s permission,’ I said, ’I will not strike my tents till the third day and I will see this man.  The mercy of the King is God-like, and rebellion is like unto the sin of witchcraft.  Moreover, both the bottles and another be empty.’

‘You have my leave to go,’ said the King.

Next morning a crier went through the state proclaiming that there was a log-jam on the river and that it behoved all loyal subjects to remove it.  The people poured down from their villages to the moist warm valley of poppy-fields; and the King and I went with them.  Hundreds of dressed deodar-logs had caught on a snag of rock, and the river was bringing down more logs every minute to complete the blockade.  The water snarled and wrenched and worried at the timber, and the population of the state began prodding the nearest logs with a pole in the hope of starting a general movement.  Then there went up a shout of ’Namgay Doola!  Namgay Doola!’ and a large red-haired villager hurried up, stripping off his clothes as he ran.

‘That is he.  That is the rebel,’ said the King.  ’Now will the dam be cleared.’

‘But why has he red hair?’ I asked, since red hair among hill-folks is as common as blue or green.

‘He is an outlander,’ said the King.  ‘Well done!  Oh well done!’

Namgay Doola had scrambled out on the jam and was clawing out the butt of a log with a rude sort of boat-hook.  It slid forward slowly as an alligator moves, three or four others followed it, and the green water spouted through the gaps they had made.  Then the villagers howled and shouted and scrambled across the logs, pulling and pushing the obstinate timber, and the red head of Namgay Doola was chief among them all.  The logs swayed and chafed and groaned as fresh consignments from upstream battered the now weakening dam.  All gave way at last in a smother of foam, racing logs, bobbing black heads and confusion indescribable.  The river tossed everything before it.  I saw the red head go down with the last remnants of the jam and disappear between the great grinding tree-trunks.  It rose close to the bank and blowing like a grampus.  Namgay Doola wrung the water out of his eyes and made obeisance to the King.  I had time to observe him closely.  The virulent redness of his shock head and beard was most startling; and in the thicket of hair wrinkled above high cheek bones shone two very merry blue eyes.  He was indeed an outlander, but yet a Thibetan in language, habit, and attire.  He spoke the Lepcha dialect with an indescribable softening of the gutturals.  It was not so much a lisp as an accent.