"I have been measured, Sahib," he said; "but I have not yet got the boots. Now may I go back to my village."
"No," the Adjutant told him, "you must wait for the boots. We must see you well fitted out first."
He had another weary two weeks to wait. He was evidently rather bored with all this fuss about footgear. What good are boots to a man who can't walk?
At last they came. He untied the box with melancholy indifference, threw the tissue paper and cardboard on the floor, and examined them resignedly.
"Sahib," he said, "there is some mistake--they are not a pair."
He was persuaded to put them on.
"Now walk," the Adjutant said.
Shere Ali rose with an effort, and was leaning forward to pick up his crutches, when he noticed that his lame foot touched ground. He advanced it gingerly, stamped with it once or twice in a puzzled way, and then began doubling round the orderly room. The Adjutant said that his chest visibly filled out and the light came back to his eyes. He took a step forward and saluted.
"When is the next parade, Sahib?" he asked.
"Never mind about parades," the Adjutant told him. "Go back to your village and bring us some more jiwans like yourself, as many as you like, and keep on bringing them."