“Given her—to the bearer—Abdul,” he answered, stoutly enough, though there was still a little nervous quivering of the lower lip.
If the ceiling had parted asunder and straightway tumbled down on their heads, the Major’s audience would not have been half so much dumfoundered. For a whole minute they sat agape, and then one burst out—
“I say, Major, it’s a joke—you would not give her out of the regiment; she is on the strength.”
“She is promised,” replied the Major, in a sort of husky whisper.
Every one knew that the Major’s promises were a serious matter, and after this answer there ensued a long dismayed silence. The visitors eventually turned the topic, and tried to talk of other matters—the last gazette, the new regimental ribbon, of anything but of what every mind was full, to wit, “the Missus.”
The news respecting her bestowal created quite a sensation that evening at the mess—far more than that occasioned by a newly announced engagement, for there was an element of mystery about this topic. Why had the Missus been given away?
“Bowen must be off his chump,” was the general verdict, “poor old chap, to give the dog to that rascal Abdul, of all people!” (One curious feature in Anglo-Indian life, is the low opinion people generally entertain of their friends’ servants.) “The proper thing was, of course, to buy the dog, and keep her in the regiment; and when the Major came to his right senses, how glad he would be, dear old man!”
The Adjutant waylaid Abdul in the road, and said, curtly—
“Is this true, about the dog?—that your sahib has given her to you?”
Abdul salaamed. How convenient and non-committal is that gesture!