“Stuff, rubbish, nonsense!” exclaimed Geoffrey contemptuously. “Do you know what I heard the other day? but I need hardly say that I did not believe it: that you, Reginald Fairfax,—‘Fighting Fairfax,’ as they call you—keep the young fry of the Seventeenth in glorious order. ‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ I said. The benighted youths look upon you as a happy blending of Bayard and Sir Galahad. I assured my informant that ‘Still waters run deep’ was a proverb made expressly to fit you, and that they little knew you.”
“Much obliged,” replied Reginald, stroking his moustache to conceal a smile. “We have a very nice set of boys in the Seventeenth, and you might do worse than exchange. I’ll see that they don’t bully you, and do what I can to smarten you up.”
“Thanks for your noble offer, but the Fifth could not afford to lose me. As to smartening me up, it would be impossible; it would be painting the lily. Don’t you think so, Miss Ferrars? Don’t you think I’m a very smart-looking young fellow? just as efficient, if not actually as bloodthirsty, as our host, who revelled in the name of ‘Shaitan’ whilst in Afghanistan. It was a pretty little nickname given him by the tribes. You can guess what it means,” nodding across the table mysteriously.
“Enough of these mutual compliments,” exclaimed Helen. “It was not Reginald himself, but his horse that was called ‘Shaitan,’ my good Geoffrey, and the Afghans had something else to do than find nicknames for British officers.”
“By-the-way, Rex,” remarked Geoffrey, leaning back in his chair, adjusting his eye-glass, and evidently stretching his long legs still farther under the mahogany, with the air of a man who has dined to his satisfaction, “what’s your opinion of the native of that part of the world, candidly and impartially?”
“If you mean the Afridi of the period, my candid, impartial opinion of him is that he is a dirty-looking ruffian, who would rob his own mother, and cut his father’s throat for the sake of two rupees.”
“Inhuman monster!” ejaculated Helen, tragically.
“One old fellow told me himself that there was nothing in life so pleasant as sitting on the roof of one’s house, and shooting at the wayfarers who came to drink at the well. He dwelt on the subject with such pleasure, that I have no doubt that he looked back on it as one of his happiest experiences.”
“Old brute!” muttered Geoffrey. “How I should have enjoyed a pot-shot at him! What sort of shots were they, take them all in all?”
“Not bad, considering their weapons and ammunition; a long Jazail studded with brass, and rams’ horns full of very doubtful powder. They are no use at a snap shot, or in the open; but give them lots of time to aim, and good cover behind a bit of rock, and they generally pick off a fair share of stragglers. The first night we camped beyond Ali Musjid we chose a bad place, a hollow, and the light attracted swarms all round us. The bullets went everywhere, and the firing resembled nothing on earth so much as a hot corner at a big battue.”