A figure squatting in a far corner rose and salaamed.
"The Huzoor speaks truth."
The speaker was an old man, slender, upright, unusually dark-skinned; this latter fact made his bare limbs look curiously youthful and lissom.
"Done it uncommonly well, too," assented Colonel Gould, feeling the edge. "Where did you learn the trick?"
"Your slave was once sword-sharpener by trade," was the submissive reply.
"Kunder'sh an awful clever chap," said Boy, loquaciously. "He can make--oh! all sorts of fings as deads people--bows and stwangles, you know--can't you, Kunder?"
The man salaamed, with a watchful look at his other hearers.
"And," continued Boy, in vicarious boasting, "he can do all sorts of dweadful fings, too! He can steal people's purses when they'se sleepin', an' make dicky-birds tumble off bwanches, an' little boys like me wake never no more--can't you, Kunder?"
Submissiveness grew crafty. "This slave has certainly told such tales to the children-people."
"Looks scoundrel enough," remarked Colonel Gould, carelessly. "Where did you pick him up?"